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H»  PACIFIC  A  VTRNWrn 
intinm  mirAnm    eA  i  ia 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"  Wholly  delightful  and  satisfying." 

— Brookhn  Eugle. 

Ihe  House  in  the 
Woods 

By  ARTHUR  HENRY 

iSECOND  EDITION) 

"A  good  breezy  healthful  story — the 
more  readers  it  has  the  better." 

-5V:.    Y.    Times. 

"As  fine  as  a  great  forest,  a  great 
city  or  a  great  man — it  is  a  pleasure  to 
recommend  it  to  the  reader." 

-5V:.   Y.  'Press. 

"A  jolly,  cheerful,  restful,  story  of 
the  kind  that  makes  a  dweller  in  the 
city  long  to  get  into  the  quiet  woods." 

-N.  y.  Sun. 

An    Island   Cabin 

By  ARTHUR  HENRY 

(.NEW  EDITION) 

"A  book  of  individuality  and  power. 
The    author  is  a  homespun  Thoreau, 
homespun  because  he  writes   without 
the  literary  pose,  and  doesn't  leave  out 
the  very  things  we  like  to  know." 

-The  World's  Work. 
Each.  l2mo.   cloth.             Illustrated.            $1.50 

A.    S.     BARNES    &    CO. 

Trinity  Church  on  New  Year's  Eve. 
From  a  painting  by   Everett  Shinn. 


LODGINGS 

IN 
TOWN 

By 

ARTHUR    HENRY 

Author  of  "The  House  in  the  Woods" 

"An  Island  Cabin"  and  "The 

Unwritten  Law  " 

ILLUSTRATED 


New  York 

A.  S.  BARNES  &  COMPANY 

1905 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
A.  S.  BARNES  &  CO. 

Published  September,  1906 


URL 


«rii«i tf r  T . 


DEDICATION 

In  the  days  when  I  was  wandering  about  New 
York  in  an  aimless  way,  doing  no  harm,  I  wrote  a 
story  and  called  it,  "The  Young  Wife  of  Old 
Pierre  Prevost." 

Ainslcc's  Magacine  was  new,  and  took  it.  On 
a  certain  day  I  ascended  the  dingy  elevator  leading 
into  the  clouds  and  there  met  the  group  of  angels 
that  had  accepted  me.  A  moment  later  another 
mortal  entered,  hat  in  hand,  and  we  were  intro- 
duced. His  clothes  were  about  as  shabby  as  my 
own.  He  was  small  and  thin.  Dark  rings  about 
his  eyes  suggested  anxiety,  but  the  eyes  themselves 
were  filled  with  visions  of  things  beyond  the  realm 
of  hunger,  of  weariness  and  of  sleep. 

"This,"  said  the  editor  blandly,  "is  Everett 
Shinn,  a  young  artist  who  will  illustrate  your 
story  for  us." 

We  were  two  very  much  unknown  people,  but 
we  neither  of  us  noticed  that.     It  seemed  very 

[7] 


DEDICATION 


natural  to  be  standing  there,  face  to  face,  among 
those  smiling  angels  in  the  clouds.  A  little  later 
we  walked  out  together  and  down  North  William 
street,  under  the  arch  of  the  bridge  and  down  the 
alley  called  a  street.  We  turned  the  corner  of 
Pearl,  and  saw  the  face  of  Franklin  beaming 
through  the  grime,  and  the  temple  that  the  Har- 
pers built.  We  had  come  that  way  at  random, 
wandering  still  in  cloudland,  but  I  remember  that 
we  stopped  by  a  common  impulse  and  stood  at  the 
curbing  just  to  look.  And  some  of  the  exultation 
passed. 

"Do  you  think,"  I  said,  "that  we  will  ever  get  in 
there?" 

"I'd  like  to  see  'em  keep  us  out,"  he  answered, 
his  black  eyes  snapping  wickedly. 

These  were  the  first  of  Shinn's  pictures  to  ap- 
pear in  a  magazine,  and  it  was  the  first  story  that 
Isold. 

It  was  late  in  the  fall  when  I  saw  Shinn  again. 
He  was  in  Central  Park,  peering  at  the  line  of 
Eighth  avenue  biu'ldings,  rising  in  irregular 
patches  of  color  between  the  treetops  and  the  sky. 
He  still  wore  the  straw  hat  of  summer.  There 
was  paint  on  his  fingers. 

J8] 


DEDICATION 


"I  have  been,  to  Paris,"  he  said,  "but  I  think 
there  is  more  real  beauty  and  a  better  interest 
here." 

I  did  not  see  him  again  until  the  other  day.  He 
was  packing  many  cases  of  pictures  and  a  very 
large  wardrobe,  preparing  to  go  for  the  summer 
to  his  estate  in  Vermont. 

"Shinn,"  1  said,  "I  am  trying  to  put  into  a  book 
something  of  what  New  York  has  meant  to  me, 
and  I  would  like  to  make  a  frontispiece  of  one  of 
the  things  you  pulled  out  since  we  met  in  Ainslee's 
that  day." 

"You  hit  me,"  he  said.    "Go  help  yourself." 

I  took  the  New  Year's  Eve  at  Trinity,  which  is 
reproduced  by  the  courtesy  of  The  Ladies'  Home 
Jourtial,  and  now,  to  all  such  friendly  impulses 
that  give  warmth  and  light  to  commence : 

To 
AN  OPTIMISTIC  COUNTRY 

AND 

"LITTLE  OLD  NEW  YORK," 

This  Book  is  Dedicated. 
I9] 


aflUHb. 


b 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  From  the  Schoolhouse  to  the  Saloon.  .  17 

II.  From  the  Saloon  to  Broadway 32 

III.  The  Exclusive  Door 46 

IV.  A    Pile   of    Granite   and   a    Mound    of 

Grass 56 

V.    The  Need  OF  A  Hairbrush 71 

VI.    Intimate  Strangers 92 

VII.    Peter  and  the  Fairies in 

VIII.    Truants 141 

IX.    An  Opening  AT  the  Bridge 159 

X.     Freedom  in  Captivity 173 

XI.    The  Plight  of  Crcesus 189 

XII.    A  Call  from  the  Wild 196 

XIII.  The  City  and  the  Dog 215 

XIV.  On  Baxter  Street 238 

XV.    The  Battle  of  the  Streets 258 

XVI.    The  Fortune  Gained 274 

XVII.    Two  Years  and  Back 288 

XVIII.    The  Walls  of  Jericho 303 

["] 


irtfirirr   ns 


FULL-PAGE    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Trinity  Church  on  New  Year's  Eve Frontispiece 

Page 
"New     York     Seemed    to     be    Those     Fantastic 

Visions  Realized" 25 

(From  a  North  River  Ferryboat.) 

"Out  of  the  Ferry  House" 29 

(West  Street.) 

Claremont 68 

("I  Slept  Soundly  on  the  Grass.") 

Summer  in  Madison  Square 89 

(The  Tower  of  Madison  Square  Garden.) 

"I  Crossed  to  Blackwell's  Island" 107 

The  City  Hall 134 

"Pushing    to    the    Entrance    to    the    Brooklyn 
Bridge" 161 

Removing  the  Snow 175 

"A  Beautiful  Place  for  the  People  to  Enjoy".  ,  182 
(Central  Park  South.) 

[13] 


FULL-PAGE    ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

"Over  the  Roofs  of  the  City" 226 

(Looking  Down  Lower  Broadway.) 

"From    the    Window    in    Front    the    Brooklyn 
Bridge  Could  Be  Seen" 240 

Chatham  Square 247 

(Near  Our  Home  on  the  East  Side.) 

"Inhabited  by  Italians  and  Germans" 259 

Where  the  Other  Half  Live 275 

(A  Street  Bath.) 

The  Colossus  Known  as  the  Flatiron  at  Twenty- 
third  Street  and  Broadway 310 

The  frontispiece  of  this  book  is  from  a  painting  by 
Mr.  Everett  Shinn. 

The  designs  for  initials  and  page-headings  are  by  Mr. 
John  Rae. 

The  other  illustrations  of  scenes  in  New  York  are 
from  photographs  by  George  P.  Hall  &  Sons,  copy- 
righted by  them,  and  reproduced  by  special  permission. 


[141 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


I 


w 


^^^tmmg^^i 


CHAPTER  I 

y       FROM  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE  TO  THE  SALOON 

HEN  a  boy  in  the  country  I 
dreamed  of  cities.  I  lay  in  the 
grass  of  the  orchard  watching 
their  changing  forms  in  the 
clouds.  Our  next  door  neigh- 
bor lived  half  a  mile  down  the 
road  and  every  morning  lit- 
tle Sadie  Heslop,  carrying 
her  lunch  pail  and  books,  was  waiting  at  her 
gate,  that  we  might  walk  together  to  the  school 
at  the  crossroads,  two  miles  away.  Sometimes 
she  talked  of  the  Chicago  Stockyards,  where 
her  father  worked  before  they  bought  the  farm. 
Her  words  are  forgotten ;  perhaps  they  were 
heard  vaguely  at  the  time.  It  was  not  until  a  few 
years  later  that  I  knew  what  the  stockyards  were. 
When  we  separated  at  the  schoolhouse  door  I 
could  slip  into  my  seat  and  gaze  from  the  pages 

[17] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^ll^^ 


of  a  geography,  through  an  openi  window,  across 
the  cornfields,  seeing  my  own  familiar  city  of  Con- 
stantinople and  Sadie's  stockyards  harmoniously 
blending  in  the  September  haze. 

Of  course,  the  time  came  when  I  knew  that  if 
ever  these  templed  cities  of  the  clouds  were  to  be 
realized  I  must  go  to  work.  The  future  was  in- 
definite. I  only  knew  that  I  was  to  become  some- 
thing great.  Why  must  we  apologize  for  these 
early  aspirations  ?  Is  it  because  that  which  stands 
for  greatness  nowadays  is  not  a  thing  to  boast  of? 
That  to  achieve  it  we  must  no  longer  believe  in 
fairies,  nor  in  angels,  nor  in  the  ideals  that  these 
impersonate  to  the  mind  of  a  child?  When  we 
have  learned  to  be  silent  concerning  our  dreams, 
a  clerkship  is  given  to  us  and  we  are  assured  that 
Honesty,  Industry  and  Thrift  are  the  elements  of 
greatness  in  a  man.  Sometimes  our  preacher  in 
his  sermon  to  boys  preached  this.  Our  Congress- 
man, the  great  man  of  our  district,  repeated  the 
phrase  in  his  Fourth  of  July  orations,  and  one  of 
our  prominent  bankers,  once  drawn  from  his  con- 
servatism, at  a  picnic  where  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters brought  him,  uttered  a  sentence  with  these 
three  words  in  it,  and  sat  down. 

[i8] 


SCHOOLHOUSE  TO  SALOON 


.%r»firirrir 


My  dreams  these  days  were  filled  with  dancing 
ladders,  and  the  troublesome  hours  were  spent  in 
adjusting  old  conceptions  of  heroes  in  the  light  of 
this  later  wisdom.  Were  Shakespeare,  Milton 
and  Caesar  respectable  and  rich,  and,  if  so,  how 
much  of  their  greatness  was  due  to  Honesty,  In- 
dustry and  Thrift  ? 

The  first  great  city  was  Chicago,  and  the  first 
visit  was  made  holding  to  my  mother's  hand.  I 
vaguely  remember  that  it  was  tense  and  feverish. 
We  slipped  from  the  street  into  a  small  dark  office, 
and  I  was  placed  upon  a  stool  to  write  my  name. 
It  was  an  employment  agency.  The  man  said 
something,  and  my  mother  answered :  "I  wish 
you  could  get  him  in  there.  I  feel  that  he  would 
be  quite  safe  in  there." 

A  few  days  later  I  was  employed  as  a  runabout 
boy  in  a  Bible  house. 

In  those  days  I  had  a  great  and  tender  rever- 
ence for  the  Scriptures  and  for  hymns,  and  I  used 
to  hide  in  the  cellarway  to  watch  the  inviting 
salesroom,  its  high  walls  and  broad  tables  covered 
with  alluring  books.  Lost  in  longing,  I  sometimes 
did  not  hear  when  I  was  called.  Now  and  then  a 
salesman,  in  a  hurry,  rushed  past  or  bawled  an 

[■9] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


order  down  the  cellarway  for  so  many  copies  of 
"Moody  and  Sankey,  No.  2."  Sometimes  a  sales- 
man, coming  up,  pushed  me  angrily  from  his  path 
and  went  smiling  to  his  customer,  a  collection  of 
Bibles  in  his  hand.  The  clink  of  money,  the  sharp 
look  of  a  superintendent  trying  to  drive  a  bargain 
in  hymnals  for  his  Sunday-school,  the  alert,  sharp 
glances  of  salesman  and  manager,  the  whispered 
conferences  in  corners,  the  glibness,  craftiness,  the 
arts  of  the  actor,  filled  me  with  apprehension  and 
unrest.  For  a  long  time  I  stood  at  the  bottom  of 
this  ladder,  shrinking  from  the  climb.  One  day  I 
overheard  two  preachers  telling  stories  amusing 
to  their  minds.  They  laughed  aloud,  but  talked  in 
low  voices,  out  of  consideration  for  the  ladies 
standing  near. 

One  of  my  daily  tasks  was  to  carry  the  mail  in 
a  pushcart  from  the  store  to  the  postoffice.  The 
handle  came  to  my  chin.  The  mailbags  and  pack- 
ages were  piled  higher  than  my  head.  Through 
the  crowded  streets,  dodging  frantically  among 
the  straining  tumult  of  teams,  in  terror  at  my 
task  and  equally  afraid  to  fail,  in  the  dusk  of  win- 
ter evenings,  through  rain  and  snow,  through 
slush  and  mud,  I  made  this  daily  journey.   Noth- 

[20] 


SCHOOLHOUSE  TO  SALOON 


^n^w 


ing  ever  happened  to  the  load,  but  once,  returning, 
the  cart  was  run  over  and  destroyed.  Carrying 
what  pieces  I  could,  I  returned  weeping,  and  my 
boss,  a  sort  of  foreman  in  the  Bible  house,  kicked 
me  for  my  carelessness.  All  sense  of  misery  was 
kicked  out  of  me,  and  in  its  place  came  rage.  If  I 
could  I  would  have  killed  the  man.  An  incoherent, 
passionate  protest  burst  from  me.  I  reviled  the 
establishment,  referred  to  them  as  whited  sepul- 
chres, and  fled  the  place,  pursued  by  the  laughter 
of  astonishment. 

It  was  past  nightfall,  for  it  was  almost  six,  and 
December.  I  hurried  through  slush  and  darkness 
and  biting  wind.  It  was  the  same  slush,  the  same 
darkness,  the  same  cold  blast  from  the  lake,  the 
same  confusion  of  crowding  people  and  threaten- 
ing teams,  and  I  was  no  bigger  than  before,  and 
more  at  sea.  I  should  never  be  a  great  publisher 
now,  for  I  had  lost  my  job;  but,  curiously  enough, 
there  was  no  sense  of  loss.  There  was  no  longer 
either  misery  or  rage,  only  a  feeling  of  liberty  and 
escape.  Escape  from  what?  It  took  me  twenty 
years  to  learn — twenty  years  of  struggling  in  the 
net. 

When  at  last  I  came  from  the  West  and  stood 

[21] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


«r*««rirr'TB 


Upon  the  ferry  skimming  the  North  River,  be- 
tween Jersey  City  and  New  York,  I  had  a  Httle 
less  than  eight  dollars  in  my  pocket.  A  small  paper 
grip  contained  the  rest  of  my  possessions — a  clean 
collar,  a  night  dress,  a  roll  of  manuscript  and  a 
corn-cob  pipe. 

New  York  is  chiefly  remarkable  in  that  it  can 
allure  to  it  IxDth  Russell  Sage  and  me.  It  is  said 
that  Mr.  Sage,  in  his  gaunt  youth,  strode  to  the 
city  with  nothing  but  Honesty,  Industry  and 
Thrift.  I  had  nothing  but  a  poem.  I  had  lived 
long  enough  to  see  most  of  my  friends  become 
successful  and  blase.  The  progress  of  life  had 
made  me  errand  boy,  clerk,  private  secretary,  re- 
porter, city  editor,  politician,  promoter  and  the 
proprietor  of  a  business.  I  had  helped  to  build  an 
electric  railroad,  to  lobby  a  bill  through  Congress, 
to  give  Illinois  its  only  Democratic  victory  since 
the  war. 

In  the  midst  of  the  vigorous  struggle  fortune, 
in  one  of  her  coquettish  moods,  had  left  me  penni- 
less. I  knew,  however,  that  in  a  moment  she 
would  smile  again.  In  fact,  the  certain  prospect 
of  an  electric  railroad  of  my  own  leered  at  me 
with  seductive  eyes.     Bankrupt  to-day,  I  might 

'    [22] 


SCHOOLHOUSE  TO  SALOON 


drink  champagne  with  Morgan  tomorrow  and  on 
Sunday  sit  with  Rockefeller  in  his  pew.  And  then 
it  was  that  a  miracle  was  wrought,  like  that  which 
transforms  the  convict  into  a  preacher.  A  great 
light  blinded  me,  and,  abandoning  forever  the 
wild  pursuit  of  wealth  and  respectability,  as  the 
prodigal  left  his  husks,  I  turned  in  my  tracks,  and 
made  for  New  York,  a  boy  again,  with  nothing 
but  my  ticket,  a  night-dress,  eight  dollars,  a  pipe 
and  a  poem. 

The  final  liberation  came,  when  in  packing  my 
grip,  I  put  in  the  poem  and  threw  the  scheme 
away.  It  was  the  prospectus  of  an  electric  rail- 
way, a  splendid  one,  and  not  difficult  to  manage. 
It  would  be  necessary  to  haggle  with  some  two 
hundred  farmers  for  a  right-of-way,  to  move 
quickly,  stealthily,  adroitly,  to  bribe  some  of  the 
Councilmen  of  three  small  towns,  in  order  to  se- 
cure franchises  for  nothing.  When  this  was  ac- 
complished there  would  be  something  valuable  to 
offer  the  honest,  thrifty,  industrious,  great  man  of 
capital.  It  would  be,  in  fact,  the  solid  foundation 
of  a  fortune  secured  for  almost  nothing  by  a 
shrewd  manipulation  of  one's  fellows.  I  could 
have  found  the  backing  in  New  York.     It  has 

[23  J 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


*^M^ 


since  been  done,  and  the  promoter  made  more  than 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars  by  a  year  of  clever 
scheming.  He  is  still  promoting.  I  saw  him  re- 
cently at  the  Imperial. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "are  two  tickets  for  Lohen- 
grin. I  wish  you  would  take  my  wife  and  go.  I 
thought  I  had  this  night  free,  but  I'm  caught 
again.    My  God,  I  can't  get  time  to  breathe." 

The  scheme  was  good  among  schemes,  the  poem 
feeble  among  poems,  but  I  took  it  because  I  had  no 
better,  and,  after  twenty  years,  it,  of  all  my  pos- 
sessions, seemed  the  most  to  resemble  those  im- 
ages of  cities  I  had  in  the  beginning  set  forth  to 
find. 

Standing  on  the  ferry.  New  York,  across  the 
water,  gleaming  in  the  sunlight,  seemed  to  me  to 
be  those  fantastic  visions  realized.  A  strong  wind 
was  blowing  in  from  the  bay,  whipping  the  sur- 
face of  the  river.  Ferryboats,  tugs  and  steamers 
left  wakes  of  sparkling  foam,  and  innumerable 
sailing  craft,  varnished  pleasure  yachts  and  wea- 
ther-beaten smacks  alike  leaned  gracefully  from 
the  wind,  throwing  showers  of  spray  about  their 
bows.  The  afternoon  sun  flashed  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  city  we  were  approaching.     It  tinted 

[24] 


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SCHOOLHOUSE  TO  SALOON 


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the  floating  plumes  of  steam  that  rose  from  roofs, 
and  traced  the  progress  of  elevated  trains.  It  ac- 
centuated shadows  and  projections  and  heightened 
the  effect  of  the  gilt  of  the  cornices  of  tall,  white 
buildings.  In  those  days  New  York  was  smoke- 
less, immaculate,  and  I,  in  smiling  eagerness,  ap- 
proached her  as  a  lover  runs  to  a  mistress  that 
holds  out  her  arms,  for  I  had  learned  what  good 
fortune  is,  and  in  seeking  this  was  seeking  what 
the  lover  seeks,  affection  and  delight. 

As  the  boat  passed  into  its  slip  a  young  man 
with  an  earnest  countenance  and  the  uniform  of  a 
clergyman  touched  my  arm,  inquiring  the  quickest 
way  to  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Animals. 

"This  is  my  first  visit  to  New  York,"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  an  ingenuous  smile. 

"And  mine,  too,"  I  answered,  smiling,  I  trust, 
as  ingenuously. 

"Perhaps  you  are  here  on  the  same  pilgrimage 
as  my  own  ?" 

"That,  among  other  things." 

"Are  you  really  going  to  the  Conference?" 

"I  might." 

'But,"  he  said,  elevating  his  brows  and  opening 

[27] 


"1 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


his  eyes  with  an  expression  of  surprise,  at  once 
amiable  and  scholarly,  "if  you  came  for  that?" 

"Only  that,  among'  other  things.  I  only  just 
now  heard  of  it.  I  am  seeking  my  fortune,  and  I 
might,  perhaps,  find  it  there." 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "you  are  off  on  a  junket.  Well, 
I  would  like  your  company  if  you  would  come." 

We  were  out  of  the  ferry  house,  and  the  clergy- 
man inquired  the  way. 

"Are  you  coming?"  he  said,  turning  from  the 
policeman  to  me. 

"I  am  hungry.  Let's  step  in  here  for  a  sand- 
wich first." 

He  took  a  step  and  stopped  abruptly. 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  have  made  a  mis- 
take.   It's  a  saloon." 

"No,  that's  all  right.  They  sell  sandwiches 
there." 

"But  you  know  I  could  not " 

"Why  not?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  for  he  disl'ked  to 
preach,  and  then  murmured  with  an  apologetic 
smile,  "I  think  we  should  avoid  the  appearance  of 
evil.    Don't  you?" 

"Yes,  and  of  good." 

[28] 


o 


en       *  y 

CO    T] 


o 

c 


SCHOOLHOUSE  TO  SALOON 


^fW 


"What  is  that?" 

"I  like  to  avoid  appearances." 

The  clergyman  laughed  nervously,  and,  slipping 
his  hand  from  mine,  ran  for  his  car,  forcing  a 
way  into  the  mass  of  people  that  swarmed  it.  The 
gaunt  horses  staggered  in  their  effort  to  start  the 
over-crowded  car  bearing  the  clergyman  to  his 
humane  conference,  and  I,  lifting  my  grip  from 
the  sidewalk,  stepped  into  the  saloon. 


c/ei.  /^-/9/i 


[3t] 


"^kHM 


CHAPTER  II 


o 


FROM  THE  SALOON  TO  BROADWAY 


HE  place  shone  with  the  pleas- 
ant, subdued  lustre  of  polished 
oak.  The  walls,  the  floor,  the 
round  tables  with  brass  legs, 
the  bar  were  spotless.  There 
was  a  sideboard  covered  with 
white  linen  and  thin  china  dishes,  filled  with  a 
tempting  lunch ;  a  bowl  of  potato  salad,  a  pile  of 
plates  with  paper  napkins  between,  platters  filled 
with  slices  of  tongue  and  ham.  arranged  in  regu- 
lar rows,  and  garnished  with  parsley. 

There  came  the  sound  of  a  bell,  and  the  bar- 
tender took  something  from  the  cash  drawer,  re- 
placing it  with  a  slip  of  paper,  on  whfch  he  wrote. 
He  turned  about  briskly  and  held  the  money  across 
the  bar  toward  two  sisters  in  flowing  black  robes 
and  black  bonnets.  A  very  plump  hand  issued 
from  a  robe  and  was  demurely  extended,  palm 

[32] 


SALOON  TO  BROADWAY 


f.r*t«rirr' 


upward.  It  closed  and  retreated.  Both  bonnets 
bent  in  a  curtsey. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  bartender.  "That 
was  on  the  house.  Here  is  one  with  me."  He 
pulled  a  coin  from  his  pocket,  the  plump  hand  re- 
appeared empty,  opened,  closed  and  vanished. 
The  bonnets  bowed  again,  and  the  sisters,  side  by 
side,  moved  slowly  away,  their  eyes  solemnly  cast 
upon  the  floor. 

The  bartender  wiped  the  bar  from  force  of 
habit,  and  looked  at  me.  He  was,  perhaps^  twenty- 
three,  clean-shaven,  with  bright  red  hair  and  blue 
eyes,  a  large,  pleasant  mouth  and  clear  skin.  He 
looked  very  cool  and  spruce  in  his  white  clothes 
and  apron.  As  he  was  making  my  sandwich  a 
door  opened  behind  the  bar  and  a  buxom  woman 
entered.  Her  sateen  dress  was  nearly  covered  by 
a  newly-laundered  apron  and  false  sleeves,  fas- 
tened with  blue  baby  ribbons,  tied  in  a  bow.  Al- 
though her  hair  was  dark,  I  knew  she  was  his 
mother  by  the  mouth  and  eyes. 

"How  is  that?"  she  asked,  smiling  broadly  at 
him  and  at  me  as  she  held  a  cookie  to  his  mouth. 

He  took  a  bite,  still  bending  over  my  sandwich. 

"What  do  we  want  a  cook  for,  anyway?" 

[33] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^ 


"Do  you  like  it?" 

"You're  it.    Send  down  some  more." 

"Where  is  your  father?" 

"One  of  the  Callahan  kids  came  after  him." 

"A  case  of  bail?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

Through  the  swinging  doors,  at  the  street 
entrance,  came  three  large  gentlemen  in  nobby 
summer  suits,  fancy  vests  and  immaculate  straw 
hats. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Casey.     It's  a  hot  day, 


ma'am." 


"It's  not  cool  in  the  kitchen.  My  cook's  gone 
to  Seabright  for  a  week  in  the  surf." 

There  was  an  amiable  laugh  all  around,  and 
she  asked  with  sobriety : 

"How  is  Jerry?" 

The  big  man  pursed  out  his  lips  and  said  sol- 
emnly : 

"He's  pretty  bad,"  and  then  cheerily:  "Well, 
boys,  what  will  it  be?" 

"Mint  julep." 

"Claret  punch." 

"A  julep  for  me.  Won't  you  take  something, 
Mrs.  Casey?" 

[34] 


SALOON  TO  BROADWAY 


,jb^l^ 


"With  pleasure.  Whiskey  and  soda,  Jack.  Just 
a  spoonful  of  rye." 

"No  use  of  asking-  you,  Jack  ?" 

The  boy  smiled  and  shook  up  the  drinks  vigor- 
ously with  cracked  ice. 

"Where  is  Tim?" 

"Gone  out." 

"No  telling  when  he  will  be  back  ?" 

"You  know  how  it  is  with  him  ?" 

"Sure." 

"Well,  you  tell  him  my  end  of  it  is  all  right. 
But  Larry  here " 

"You  tell  him,"  said  Larry,  leaning  over  the 
bar,  "that  them  Italians  need  seein'." 

"All  right,  Larry,"  came  in  mellow  tones  from 
behind,  "I'll  see  'em." 

Tim,  the  newcomer,  was  taller  than  the  others — 
a  fine,  portly,  red-headed,  big-faced  Irishman,  clad 
in  blue  serge  trousers  and  coat,  a  belt,  no  vest,  silk 
shirt,  tan  shoes  and  an  Alpine  panama.  He  took 
this  off  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  the  inner  band. 

"It's  hot.  Jack,  give  me  some  buttermilk.  Mag- 
gie " 

Larry  took  him  by  the  arm  to  lead  him  into  a 
comer. 

[35] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^rt««r«rrrr.B 


"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said.  "Say,  Maggie,  you'd 
better  go  'round  to  Callahan's  yourself.  The 
baby's  dead." 

"Dear,  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  and  away  she 
went,  a  genuine  expression  of  concern  upon  her 
motherly  countenance. 

"This  is  great,"  I  said  to  my  neighbor. 

"What's  great?"  He  glared  at  me  over  the 
paper  he  held.  He  was  a  short,  bald,  middle-aged 
man,  with  a  moustache  much  chewed  and  a  pair  of 
steel-bowed  glasses. 

"These  glimpses  of  life,"  I  answered,  somewhat 
disconcerted. 

"Oh,  hell,"  he  answered,  "what's  the  matter, 
anyhow  ?  Are  there  no  vacant  tables  in  the  room  ?" 

Sure  enough,  this  was  the  only  one  occupied. 

"Excuse  me,"  I  said  hastily,  gathering  up  my 
lunch. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  tired 
apology.  "Don't  get  up.  I've  been  jostled  by  the 
three  million  people  of  this  city  for  fifteen  years, 
and  I  should  be  used  to  it." 

The  glitter  left  his  eyes,  and,  as  a  further  pallia- 
tion, he  remarked  that  it  was  a  ghastly  day. 

I  ate  my  lunch  as  unobtrusively  as  possible,  and 

[36] 


SALOON  TO  BROADWAY 


I 


he  returned  to  his  paper.  In  a  few  moments 
he  threw  it  down,  and,  looking  pointblank  at 
me,  exclaimed :  "Well,  what  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"I  think  it's  all  right,"  I  said.     "What  is  it?" 

"See  here,  I  hope  you're  not  one  of  those  windy 
people  who  think  whatever  is  is  right?" 

"I  have  here,"  I  said,  reaching  for  my  grip,  "a 
carefully  prepared  statement  of  what  I  think." 

I  unrolled  the  manuscript  before  me. 

"Hold  on,"  he  exclaimed,  "you're  not  going  to 
read  ;hat  ?" 

"I  thought  I  would." 

"Well,  not  to  me.  I  have  all  I  can  do  to  read 
my  own  stuff." 

I  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  He  answered  with 
a  nod,  and  pointed  to  the  paper,  saying : 

"Anywhere  from  one  to  three  columns  a  day  for 
that  thing.    I  don't  read  it.     I  measure  it." 

"You  chose  your  own  career?" 

"When  I  was  eighteen."  He  smiled  cynically, 
the  cynicism  of  a  man  who  has  once  possessed 
dreams  and  missed  them. 

"It  was  such  a  pretty  world,"  he  mused.  "I 
dreamed  of  liter-a-chure." 

[37] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


****** 


"You  are  older  now,"  I  ventured;  "why  don't 
you  choose  again?" 

"I  haven't  the  nerve." 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?" 

He  smiled  sardonically. 

"I  would  like  to  hit  Carnegie  over  the  head  with 
a  crowbar  and  step  into  his  shoes." 

"Rather  a  violent  method  of  becoming  a  phil- 
anthropist?" 

"Very  much  like  his  own.  It  is  more  direct, 
and  only  a  trifle  quicker,  but  more  difficult  to 
evade  the  law.    I  might  be  hung." 

"Why  so  anxious  to  build  libraries?" 

"If  I  had  his  plunder  I  could  throw  purses  to 
the  rabble,  too.    There  would  be  enough  left." 

"What  would  you  do  with  it  ?" 

"T  would  buy  all  the  newspapers  in  New  York 
and  blow  them  up.  Then  I  would  go  away 
into  remote  parts  and  do  the  Rip  Van  Winkle 
act." 

"That  last  you  can  do  now." 

He  leaned  over,  and  poking  his  finger  into  my 
breast,  said  shrewdly : 

"But  not  the  first,  sweetheart — not  the  first." 

Just  then  Larry  passed  us,  and,  touching  him 

[38] 


SALOON  TO  BROADWAY 


i.rMiririr:';:n.lB 
-  :-.;:'::Av:':. :■:•:* 


on  the  shoulder,  said :  ''Tim  wants  you."  He 
shoved  back  his  chair. 

"A  good  story  for  you?" 

"Oh,  no  better  than  six  inches  at  the  most." 

**If  you  feel  that  way,  why  don't  you  skip  it?" 

"You  talk  as  if  you  had  money." 

"I  have." 

"Well,  I  haven't,  and  it  costs  a  dollar  a  minute 
to  breathe  this  air." 

He  sauntered  into  the  back  room  for  his  six 
inches,  and  I  went  out  upon  the  street. 

I  have  forgotten  just  why  I  left  that  corner. 
The  old  fruit-seller  has  remained  there  by  his 
stand  for  eighteen  years.  In  the  beginning  he 
thought  if  he  failed  to  do  this  he  would  starve. 
Now  that  he  has  enough  to  keep  him  for  the  little 
while  he  can  live  he  arrives  earlier  and  goes  later 
than  before.  On  hot  days  he  complains  of  the 
heat.  On  cold  days  of  the  cold.  A  rush  of  custom 
irritates  him  and  dull  trade  makes  him  mad.  He 
follows  the  passing  multitude  with  an  accusing 
e3^e.  He  grows  weary  of  this  constant  attendance 
on  his  stand,  but  deprive  him  of  it  and  he  will 
curse  you.     Sickness  is  a  misfortune,  because  it 

[39] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


interrupts  his  routine,  and  he  fears  death,  first, 
because  after  it  he  can  come  no  more. 

I,  too,  might  have  found  something  to  keep  me 
here.  I  could  have  secured  a  job  in  one  of  the 
establishments  on  this  corner,  and  after  many 
years  of  toil  and  scheming  I  might  have  owned  it. 
On  such  traditions  our  cities  are  built,  and  be- 
cause of  this  men  are  not  happy  there. 

He  who  seeks  to  possess  the  earth  shall  lose  it. 
Toil  on,  then,  votaries  of  ambition,  of  vanity  and 
of  greed;  promote,  erect,  adorn,  for  in  the  end 
your  splendors  shall  become  the  inheritance  of  the 
meek.  Give  no  thought  of  the  morrow.  Go  to 
the  ant,  thou  sluggard.  Consider  the  lilies  of  the 
field. 

There  is  a  beauty  in  this  combination  of  gems, 
which  the  wisdom  of  future  ages  may  reveal. 
This  much  is  true,  at  least :  If  life  be  more  than 
meat,  Phil  Armour  is  not  its  prophet ;  and  insofar 
as  the  body  is  more  than  raiment,  a  youth  is  put 
upon  a  foolish  scent  when  apprenticed  to  a  tailor. 

As  for  me,  if  life  be  a  pursuit,  I  choose  to  follow 
the  winds  and  the  flight  of  wings.  The  smallest 
insect  shall  take  me  for  a  long  journey.  The  tint 
of  a  cloud,  a  vagrant  odor  shall  lead  me,  and  any 

[40] 


SALOON  TO  BROADWAY 


^^y®' 


one  of  a  thousand  I  pass  upon  the  street,  the 
chance  note  of  a  song  or  a  sigh  shall  bear  me  on 
my  way. 

Not  far  from  the  ferry  a  man  stood  in  a  wagon, 
near  the  curb,  proclaiming  lustily  the  delights  of 
literature  to  a  gaping  world.  He  wore  a  linen 
duster.  His  face  rose  from  the  base  of  his  broad 
jowls  to  a  pyramidal  forehead,  on  which  rested  a 
derby  hat.  His  small,  shrewd  eyes  moved  rest- 
lessly over  his  audience.  His  continuous  gestures 
were  the  most  natural  in  the  world,  for  they  were 
the  movements  of  a  man  distributing  his  wares. 
He  took  ten  cents  from  extended  fingers  and  hand- 
ed in  exchange  a  large  manila  envelope,  package 
size.  The  purchaser  opened  it,  looked  in,  smiled 
and  went  his  way.  In  the  lull  of  custom,  the  man 
stood  up,  drew  his  floating  duster  about  his  form, 
and  challenged  the  crowd  with  a  glance  of  sur- 
prised resentment. 

"Remember  who  this  fellow  is  !"he  cried.  "He's 
Balzac !  He's  Beecher  and  Bill  Nye  in  one.  Kip- 
ling was  a  typesetter  compared  to  him.  Do  you 
want  real  warm  love?  It's  there.  The  scandals 
in  his  works  will  keep  you  up  all  night.  What  you 
stand  there  gaping  for?     Why  don't  you  buy? 

[41] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^r»tirirr>*rt 


The  complete  works  of  Balzac  here  for  ten 
cents.  Go  into  a  tookstore,  and  they'll  ask  you  one 
hundred  dollars  for  a  set !  Ten  cents !  Ten  cents !" 

By  this  time  there  was  a  movement  in  the 
crowd  and  hands  were  reached  up  again. 

"That's  the  eye,"  he  said.  "Let's  not  waste  time 
in  talking  while  one  of  these  packages  remains." 

I  bought  my  package,  looked  in,  and,  smiling, 
went  my  way.  I  got  more  than  I  had  bargained 
for.  There  was  not  only  a  pamphlet  on  the  com- 
plete works  of  Balzac,  but  several  other  little 
documents  as  well,  and  slipped  in  to  make  the 
measure  good,  an  Omar  Khayyam  calendar,  muti- 
lated, it  is  true,  but  with  a  good  dime's  worth  of 
beauty  in  the  verses  that  were  left. 

As  I  walked  I  read,  looked  often  at  the  passing 
pageant,  mused  and  smiled.  Why  underneath  the 
bough?  I  said.  One  may  have  pleasant  fancies 
on  Twenty-third  street  if  he  will. 

I  did  not  envy  the  driver  on  his  truck,  the  lady 
in  her  brougham,  the  shoppers  that  went  in  to  buy. 
They  made  a  pleasing,  stirring  spectacle  for  me, 
and  so  did  these  spacious  emporiums  that  I  passed, 
with  all  their  entertaining  novelties  so  generously 
displayed. 

[42] 


SALOON  TO  BROADWAY 


I  do  not  know  why  I  was  impelled  to  leave  any 
of  these  show  windows,  any  of  these  majestic 
doorways,  through  which  the  pleasant  throng 
surged  in  and  out,  nor  why  I  should  have  drifted 
idly  East.  No  one  was  expecting  me.  I  had  no 
place  in  mind  that  I  must  reach.  I  almost  touched 
a  thousand  hands  I  think  I  should  have  been  glad 
to  clasp.  I  looked  into  a  thousand  faces,  and  saw 
there  glimpses  of  something  that  I  might  have 
loved.  New  York  has  a  smiling  countenance,  a 
genial  voice,  an  optimistic  eye.  I  think  I  know 
why  this  is  so.  On  that  day  I  vaguely  caught  the 
hint.  Most  of  those  who  had  come  in  with  me 
upon  the  ferry  were  the  city's  guests.  They  had 
been  met  by  friends,  and  in  the  joyous  greetings 
there  were  no  inquiries  after  Sal  and  Dick.  The 
folks  at  home  were  not  mentioned.  There  were 
babblings  about  the  "dear  old  town."  The  stranger 
was  shaken  by  the  hand  and  eagerly  assured  that 
he  had  landed  in  New  York  at  last.  I  heard  one 
bustling,  gaunt-faced  man  exclaim  tOi  a  group  of 
well-fed,  beaming,  sleek  companions:  "Walk? 
Well,  I  guess  not.  I've  been  two  years  from 
Broadway.    Get  a  cab." 

At  this  hour  of  the  day,  at  least,  the  trend  was 

[43] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^^^fW 


all  one  way,  and  I  must  have  followed  it  as  a  chip 
upon  the  tide.  Shoppers  drove  up  in  carriages, 
went  in,  came  out  and  drove  away  again.  I  miss- 
ed the  eager  strain  that  pervades  the  scrambles  of 
the  West,  but  New  York  on  Twenty-third  street 
is  busy  there  upon  its  errands — quick  to  come  and 
quick  to  go  away.  But  it  is  here,  as  elsewhere,  on 
parade — a  hostess  busy  with  the  thought  of  guests 
— its  soul  renewed  by  the  holiday  spirit  of  those 
who  come  to  find  their  holiday — made  courteous 
and  alert  in  the  need  to  meet  the  demands  of  those 
who  come  to  find.  I  was  in  a  world  of  color  and 
beauty.  Bewitching  costumes  fluttered  past.  Bows, 
smiles  and  odds  and  ends  of  wit  and  laughter  and 
glimpses  of  beaming  faces  caught  and  lost.  And 
presently  I  was  so  bewitched  that  I  could  not  quite 
restrain  my  arms  and  legs,  for  I  seemed  to  be  one 
of  a  multitude  of  dancing  marionets. 

"And  here,"  said  a  voice  beside  me,  hushed,  yet 
big  with  significance,  "here  is  Broadway,  and 
there,"  serenely,  "is  Fifth  avenue."  The  little 
group  paused  and  looked,  and  the  little  hostess 
sighed  with  that  complacent  satisfaction  the  ama- 
teur usher  feels  when  his  own  friends  are  seated 
and  the  performance  has  iDcgun. 

[44] 


SALOON  TO  BROADWAY 


AiJ^i 

^^^^r 


Here  the  crowds  were  multiplied,  but  there  was 
no  sense  of  dancing  here.  The  city  may  seem  to 
be  in  a  hurry  on  the  side  streets,  but  on  Broadway 
it  is  at  home.  Some  day,  I  think,  the  smoking 
jacket  and  slippers  will  be  the  fashion  there.  This 
is  the  lounging  room,  convenient  to  the  sideboard, 
the  place  to  meet  informally,  to  chat,  digest  our 
dinners,  glance  at  our  bric-a-brac.  When  we  leave 
it,  it  is  to  dress,  and  in  the  evening  we  pass 
through  it  again  to  the  door  of  the  amusement 
hall.  Fifth  avenue  seems  quite  homelike,  too,  but 
this  is  the  art  gallery — the  salon.  Here  we  attend 
to  the  formalities,  and,  on  Sundays,  think  of  God. 

5. 


[45] 


^nW 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  EXCLUSIVE  DOOR 


S  I  walked  up  Broadway,  I  took 
the  poem  from  my  bag  and 
dropped  it  on  the  walk.  It  was 
the  best  I  had  to  offer,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  to  be  g-iven  in 
the  proper  way.  It  would,  at 
least,  prove  if  the  thing  had  wings.  A  hundred 
feet  passed  over  it  before  I  turned  away.  Two 
blocks  up  I  crossed  over  to  Fifth  avenue,  and 
stood  for,  perhaps,  an  hour  by  the  curbstone,  mar- 
veling at  the  enticing  splendors  of  the  scene,  and 
there  came  again  to  me  the  feeling  that  this  world 
I  was  supposed  to  inhabit  was  a  foreign  world. 
These  lordly  gentlemen  I  felt  w^uld  be  worth 
while  to  know,  but  would  the  acquaintance  be 
worth  that  much  when  one  figfured  all  the  cost? 
The  equipages  looked  alluring  and  the  beaming 
creatures  in  exquisite  govms  were  still  sufficiently 

[46] 


THE  EXCLUSIVE  DOOR 


4m 


human  to  make  a  mere  man  wonder  if  this  fairy- 
land he  moved  in  were  all  a  myth.  A  purse  falling 
at  my  feet  awaked  me  from  the  trance.  I  hurried 
after  the  being  who  had  dropped  it.  She  took  it 
in  mild  surprise,  opened  it  to  see  if  the  money  was 
still  there,  looked  past  me,  smiling  sweetly,  stepped 
into  her  carriage  and  drove  away.  Dazzled  by 
her  beauty  and  by  the  splendors  of  her  world,  I 
felt  for  a  moment  like  an  intruding  outcast  there. 
I  could  not  enter  their  drawing-rooms — not  born 
within  their  pale,  without  a  fortune  or  a  name,  but 
these,  their  shops,  were  open.  I  entered  the  one 
my  lady  had  just  left — a  place  where  nothing  but 
hosiery  was  sold.  By  adroit  inquiry  I  learned  that 
the  average  price  of  stockings  was  ten  dollars  a 
pair,  but  that  any  one  who  wished  to  could  pay 
one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  That  elegance  just 
then  was  represented  by  black  lisle,  with  white  em- 
broidery or  insertion  of  real  lace.  Some  of  the 
stockings  were  so  fine  that  they  could  be  wadded 
into  a  thimble.  An  unusually  attractive  design 
was  conceived  not  long  before  by  a  manufacturer 
in  Philadelphia.  The  leg  was  of  black  lisle,  and 
might  have  been  woven  by  a  spider.  The  lower 
half  was  an  open  web,  and  over  it  ran  a  delicate 

[47  J 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


i^rvftrirriTB 


vine,  in  black.  This  was  hand  embroidered.  It 
was,  indeed,  a  distinguished  and  beautiful  bit  of 
hosiery,  worthy,  in  fact,  of  these  creatures  almost 
divine,  but  there  were  now  no  more  of  these  par- 
ticular stockings  to  be  had.  The  girl  employed  to 
make  them  was  in  the  hospital,  and  this  Philadel- 
phia manufacturer  was  so  peculiar  that  he  had  re- 
fused to  put  another  to  the  task. 

Somewhat  reconciled,  I  went  out  again.  A  lit- 
tle farther  up  the  avenue  was  a  jewelry  store,  into 
which  no  one  might  look.  Close  against  the  win- 
dow was  a  carved  oaken  panel,  obstructing  the 
view.  There  was  nothing  but  a  word,  in  small 
gilt  letters,  on  the  door  to  indicate  that  there  jew- 
els might  be  had.  Within  the  store  glass  cases 
were  filled  with  brilliant  gems.  At  a  roll-top  desk 
in  the  rear  was  a  pleasant-faced,  gray-haired  old 
gentleman,  leisurely  writing  a  letter  with  a  quill 
pen. 

"Why  do  you  have  no  window  display?"  I  ask- 
ed. He  looked  up  curiously  and  answered,  "Be- 
cause we  do  not  want  any." 

It  took  some  time  to  convince  him  that  so  per- 
sonal a  question  might  properly  be  asked,  but  final- 
ly he  explained . 

[48] 


THE  EXCLUSIVE  DOOR 


"Our  customers,"  said  he,  "are  a  class  of  people 
who  Hke  to  think  their  deaHngs  are  exclusive. 
They  would  not  readily  buy  a  necklace  that  every 
passing  eye  had  seen.  It  would  lose  its  value  if  it 
became  too  common. 

"And  then,"  he  added,  "a  jewel  thief  seldom 
enters  a  store  after  what  he  has  not  seen."  He  led 
the  way  into  a  little  reception  room,  quiet  and 
richly  furnished.  In  the  centre  was  a  small  cabinet 
on  a  table. 

"It  does  not  look  much,"  said  he,  tapping  it 
with  his  fingers.  Taking  a  key  from  his  pocket, 
he  lifted  its  front,  and  revealed,  against  a  back- 
ground of  exquisite  white  velvet,  four  diamond 
collarettes,  a  tiara  and  a  necklace  of  pearls. 

"Here,"  said  he,  indicating  the  necklace,  "is 
one  hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand  dollars.  It 
is  intrinsically  worth  all  that,  but  a  woman  who 
wears  it  about  her  neck  would  rather  take  it  from 
this  hidden  cabinet  thart  from  under  the  nose  of 
the  people  on  a  holiday."  Still  more  reconciled,  I 
went  outside. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  I  could  not  have  enjoyed  a 
very  close  communion  with  my  lady  of  the  quick 

[49  J 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


coupe,  for  I  think  that  our  sense  of  values  affects 
our  sentiments.  I  entered  what  seemed  to  be  a 
daintily  furnished  apartment  of  three  small  rooms. 
The  proprietor  of  this  receives  a  customer  as  a 
gentleman  of  leisure  does  a  caller,  and  discusses 
business  as  they  loimge  in  upholstered  chairs.  He 
has  nothing  to  sell,  but  when  the  business  is  over 
he  may,  perhaps,  put  a  check  of  twenty-five  thou- 
sand dollars  in  his  pocket.  The  walls  are  adorned 
with  sketches  in  water-colors.  These  are  his  stock. 
A  customer  wanting  a  room  furnished  may  have 
ideas  of  his  own,  or  he  may  leave  the  whole  matter 
to  this  house-scape  artist.  There  are  those  who 
worry  about  the  smallest  detail,  who  spend  weeks 
in  giving  an  order,  and  who  haunt  the  job  until  it 
is  finished.  But  a  man  will  sometimes  enter,  stand 
by  the  door,  and  while  consulting  his  watch,  give 
the  number  of  his  residence,  just  finished,  leave  in- 
structions to  fit  it  up  all  right,  and  be  seen  no  more 
until  he  pays  the  bill  of  thousands.  The  ordinary 
cost  of  furnishing  and  decorating  a  bedroom  is 
from  one  thousand  to  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  but 
he  can,  if  put  to  it,  charge  three  thousand  for  a 
table. 

Serenely  musing,   I  passed  with  lighter   feet 

[50] 


THE  EXCLUSIVE  DOOR 


along  my  way,  content  to  enjoy  impersonally  the 
vivid  scene.  The  entrances  to  many  basement 
doors  were  decorated  with  gayly-colored  sporting 
prints.  Hunters,  in  blue  coats,  red  waists  and 
buff-colored  breeches,  dashed  madly  after  spotted 
hounds,  over  fields  of  gaudy  green.  Coaches  filled 
with  round-faced  Englishmen  rolled  along  wind- 
ing roads  between  the  even  hedgerows.  There 
were  pictures  of  game  cocks,  fighting  in  the  pit,  of 
cricket  and  of  golf.  I  learned  that,  without  much 
effort,  in  the  last  few  years  the  trade  in  these  old 
English  prints  and  their  imitations  has  enjoyed 
amazing  growth. 

"It  is  a  fad,"  said  one  of  the  dealers,  "made 
popular,  no  doubt,  by  the  great  increase  in  country 
homes  and  the  travel  in  England,  w^hich  has  been 
heavy  of  late,  but,  like  all  fads,  it  will  die  out. 
American  scenes  by  American  painters  are  begin- 
ning to  find  a  demand.  Look  at  the  fortune  that 
one  man  Clark  made.  He  was  a  dealer  in  collars 
and  cuffs,  but  he  had  a  shrewd  eye  for  a  painting 
just  the  same.  He  bought  the  early  productions  of 
Inness,  Wyant,  Homer  Martin  and  Winslow  Ho- 
mer— bought  them  for  a  song.  He  held  to  them 
for  years,  lent  them  on  exhibition  to  clubs  all  over 

[51] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


the  country,  and  if  any  one  asked  the  price  they 
were  not  for  sale.  He  always  insured  them  heav- 
ily at  the  club's  expense,  and  when  the  bill  came  up 
for  payment  the  clubmen  opened  their  eyes.  When, 
at  last,  he  announced  an  auction  sale,  buyers  came 
in  from  everywhere,  and,  out  of  sheer  competition 
and  surplus  wealth  more  than  in  real  apprecia- 
tion of  them,  ran  the  prices  up  against  each 
other  to  fabulous  amounts.  He  cleared  a  fortune, 
and  since  then  good  American  art  has  had  a 
show." 

These  were  mteresting  glimpses  through  the 
windows  of  a  highly-frescoed  world.  There  is  an 
ornate  knocker  on  the  exclusive  door.  Its  fasten- 
ings are,  no  doubt,  worth  the  attention  of  gentle- 
manly thieves  or  of  those  who  can  find  their  inter- 
est in  solving  the  problems  of  an  ingenious  lock. 
Such  adventurers  and  artisans  may  force  an  en- 
trance quickly,  but,  believe  me,  Honesty,  Industry 
and  Thrift  must  use  the  knocker,  and  spend  a  life- 
time tapping,  tapping,  with  their  backs  turned  on 
a  fairer  world  outside;  and  so,  considering  the 
lilies,  I  reached  the  WaJdorf,  recalled  the  mandate 
to  the  sluggard,  and  went  inside.    I  leaned  upon 

[52] 


THE  EXCLUSIVE  DOOR 


the  counter  of  the  office  until  the  tall,  blond  gen- 
tleman behind  it  caught  my  eye. 

"Do  you  furnish,  pen,  ink  and  paper  to  the 
passerby  ?" 

He  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"Down  that  hall  to  the  right.  You  will  find 
some  desks  'round  the  corner.  They're  usually 
supplied." 

"But  I  am  not  a  guest,  you  know." 

He  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  say,  "This  is  the 
caravanserai  of  the  world.  Our  pockets  are  full 
and  open.    Dip  right  in." 

As  I  turned  away  he  said  quickly,  "Wait  a 
minute."  He  tapped  a  bell.  A  slim  youth  in  uni- 
form stepped  up. 

"Show  this  gentleman  to  a  desk,  and  see  that 
there's  paper  there."  But  I  knew,  of  course,  that 
this  temple  could  not  stand  on  gestures  and  a 
courteous  way,  and  to  prove  that  I  am  not  a  wan- 
dering dreamer,  without  business  parts,  once  long 
after,  discovering  a  dress  suit  upon  me,  I  bought 
me  a  dinner  there.  With  this  intention  forming 
in  my  mind,  I  followed  the  bellboy  to  a  desk  and 
toiled  two  hours  with  a  pen.  "If  we  are  wise,  we 
will  be  happy,"  and  so  on,  through  ten  pages. 

[53] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


In  the  air  around  me,  an  accompaniment  to  my 
simple  screed,  was  a  murmur  of  stirring  sounds, 
such  as  those  the  foolish  poets  think  to  find  only  in 
the  forests  and  the  fields.  Ghostly  whispers,  fitful 
rustlings,  laughter,  phrases,  words,  low  notes  that 
lightly  flecked  my  ears;  odors  from  the  farthest 
gardens  of  the  earth,  and  in  place  of  stars  there 
were  the  twinkling  lights  of  intelligence  moving 
past  me. 

Presently  I  discovered  that  for  some  moments 
I  had  been  looking  steadily  into  one  pair  of  these 
twinkling  lights.  They  were  blue,  clear  and  tran- 
quil. They  beamed  upon  me  from  beneath  a  low- 
crowned  hat,  adorned  with  silken  poppies,  its 
broad  brim  drooping  slightly  at  the  sides. 

As  consciousness  peered  out  from  mine,  she 
turned  her  eyes  away,  saying  quietly : 

"Now,  papa,  the  place  is  really  pleasanter  than 
this." 

The  well-built  gentleman  looked  down  at  her, 
his  broad,  smooth-shaven  face  beaming  with  good 
nature. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "if  you  and  mamma  think 
so,  it  must  be  so." 

The  mother,  a  youthful,  slim  brunette,  nodded 

[54] 


THE  EXCLUSIVE  DOOR 


i!f;irt»ir,lFr'J!;|| 


emphatically,  but  it  was  evidently  in  approval  of 
his  sentiment,  rather  than  of  her  daughter's  view. 

"I  would  rather  stay  here,  but  Puss " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  daintily  and  pouted 
prettily. 

The  daughter  looked  up  at  papa  in  the  most 
alluring  way. 

"It's  so  much  nicer  there — grandma  is  so  un- 
comfortable here.  She  just  fell  in  love  with  the 
landlady' — a  regular,  old-fashioned  New  Eng- 
lander — a  dear " 

The  father's  eyes  began  to  shift.  He  looked  at 
his  watch. 

"All  right.  Puss.  What  was  the  number  again  ?" 

She  gave  it  slowly,  her  glance  unconsciously 
passing  mine,  and  I,  in  absent-mindedness,  wrote 
the  number  down.  Of  course,  I  should  want  a 
boarding  house  myself,  and  this  might  answer  if 
it  were  not  too  dear. 


[  55  ] 


CHAPTER  IV. 


A  PILE  OF  GRANITE  AND  A  MOUND  OF  GRASS. 


NCE  more  upon  the  avenue,  I 
came  to  a  book  store,  and  went 
in.  Instantly  the  old  chaos  of 
desires  arose.  I  wanted  them 
all — a  vast  room  to  put  them 
in,  and  then,  how  I  would 
stand  in  the  midst  of  them  and  glow  with  memory 
and  expectation,  marvelling  at  these  treasures  of 
the  ages  and  that  they  were  mine.  But,  alas !  the 
thousand  things  that  must  be  done  before  that 
could  be.  If  I  had  a  hundred  lives,  I  thought,  or 
even  ten,  or  two,  it  might  pay  to  devote  one  of 
them  to  such  an  end.  But  when  there  are  so  many 
flowers  on  the  earth,  so  many  mysteries  in  the 
grass,  so  many  sweet  fruits  that  I  can  quickly 
reach,  why  pass  through  this  one  brief  life,  in 
eager  and  unseeing  haste,  my  eyes  fixed  even  on  a 
star  ? 

[56] 


GRANITE  AND  GRASS 


^fW 


There  was  a  marvelous  copy  of  "The  Senti- 
mental Journey,"  with  pictures  by  Maurice  Le- 
loir;  price,  fifteen  dollars.  But  now,  see  how 
ready  to  our  hand  is  grace  and  plenty.  Why  rail 
at  life?  Even  the  idler  is  preserved — the  majority 
of  criminals  go  unhung,  and  the  greatest  of  them 
receive  homage,  tribute  and  an  aspiring  praise.  In 
spite  of  all  our  pessimism,  a  persistent  spirit  of 
benevolence  rules  and  showers  gratuitous  bless- 
ings, though  it  be  ignored.  I  found  a  dainty  little 
copy  of  the  "Jo^^rney,"  with  the  same  pictures,  re- 
duced, for  twenty-five  cents,  and  it  was  exactly 
the  size  convenient  for  my  use. 

At  the  next  corner  I  was  suddenly  confronted 
with  a  man  whose  heavy  jowls  were  generously 
covered  with  a  week's  growth  of  red  beard.  His 
shabby  coat  was  pinned  across  his  hairy  breast. 
He  wore  no  shirt.  His  large  round  eyes  were  close 
together.    They  were  blue  and  guileless. 

"I  want  a  shave,"  he  said.  "I  want  a  shave  and 
a  shirt." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes;  I  lost  a  job  this  morning  because  when 
they  seen  me  I  looked  so  bad  they  sent  me  off." 

"How  much  do  you  need  ?" 

[57] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


nrfitvtrryrm 


"I've  got  some  towards  it,"  he  said,  emptying 
his  pocket  of  a  number  of  pennies  and  nickels,  and 
holding  them  toward  me  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
He  said  ten  cents  was  all  he  needed.  I  gave  him 
this,  and  passed  on.  Perhaps  I  should  have  gone 
with  him  to  see  that  he  spent  this  sum  judiciously, 
but  I  did  not  feel  that  my  ten  cents  had  given  me 
so  many  rights  over  him,  and  then,  I  disliked  to 
take  him  from  this  corner,  which  should  have  been 
a  good  place,  with  so  many  people  of  such  vast 
surplus  wealth  living  close  at  hand.  Thank  God, 
there  are  wretches  of  so  low  a  grade  that  I,  with 
only  seven  dollars,  could  still  enjoy  the  pleasures 
of  philanthropy.  If  he  bought  his  shirt  and  shave, 
he  would  do  well ;  if  not,  he  would  still  do  well, 
for  there  are  so  many  who  really  long  in  vain  for 
shirts  and  shaves,  and  will  say  nothing,  that  with- 
out these  plausible  impostors  we  might  forget. 

My  way  now  lay  between  brownstone  walls,  and 
I  wondered  that  any  one  could  envy  these  people 
their  sombre  fronts.  A  carriage  stopped ;  a  man 
climbed  up  the  stairs.  The  oak  door  closed  be- 
hind him  with  a  click.  Poor  prisoner,  I  thought ; 
you  must  go  in  because  the  house  is  yours !  But 
even  here  the  falling  twilight  bestowed  a  grace, 

[58] 


GRANITE  AND  GRASS 


invoked  a  mystery,  beguiling  fancy  with  its  tender 
hues.  Rapid  hoofbeats,  the  quick  closing  of  coupe 
doors,  the  rumbling,  rustling,  clattering,  talking, 
laughing  of  the  avenue  began  again  to  have  a 
pleasant  sound.  Perhaps,  I  thought,  there  are 
people  who  live  well  and  happily  in  this  exclusive 
luxury.  There  may  be  natures  great  enough  to 
be  happy  when  they  need  not  be.  And  presently, 
the  lights  appearing  in  the  windows  made  me 
dream  of  home.  Here  was  the  Plaza  and  the  resi- 
dence of  Cornelius  Vanderbilt.  Would  I  care  for 
that?  I  might.  "But  I  can  wait,"  I  thought, 
"until  the  patent  has  expired.  If  in  the  end  such 
places  are  really  found  worth  while,  they  will  be- 
come as  common  as  II  Trovatore.  The  prices  of  a 
first  performance  are  too  high." 

Having  denied  myself  this  mansion,  I  thought 
I  could  afford  bananas  for  my  evening  meal.  I 
bought  them  from  a  fruit  stand  at  the  entrance  to 
the  park.  Two  hours  later  I  escaped  from  the 
gauntlet  of  policemen,  to  find  myself  upon  One 
Hundred  and  Tenth  street,  vaguely  suspecting 
that  one  might  find  many  beauties  in  that  marvel 
of  a  park  when  he  had  mastered  the  puzzle  of 
where  he  might  not  go  and  could  escape  the  clam- 

[59] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^^J'w^ 


orous  conflict  of  its  guardians,  with  their  rabid 
gestures  and  their  cold  blue  eyes. 

If  there  are  people  in  New  York  whom  you 
have  known  elsewhere,  you  will  meet  them,  usual- 
ly, on  Broadway.  These  meetings,  that  might  be 
called  chance  in  other  places,  are  not  so  here.  They 
are  the  certainties.  I  did  not  know  this  on  that 
day,  and  so  when  I  met  my  old  friend,  Mr. 
Churchill,  near  the  park  exit,  I  ran  to  him  as  if  he 
were  a  fallen  star,  and  mistaking  the  reason  of  his 
serene  reception,  felt  a  sudden  chill.  He  had  been 
in  the  city  five  years,  and  there  was  nothing  in  this 
encounter  unexpected. 

He  took  my  hand  without  stopping,  and  as- 
sumed I  would  accompany  him,  treating  me,  in 
fact,  as  a  belated  guest  for  whom  dinner  has  been 
waiting.  As  we  exchanged  news,  I  forgot  him 
and  these  surroundings,  carried  back  to  a  summer 
of  my  youth  when  I  worshipped  this  man's  wife 
with  the  fever  of  a  passionate  boy,  awakened  to 
romantic  feeling,  but  without  knowledge  of  love, 
except  through  its  embryo  desires — without 
knowledge  of  law,  except  through  the  arbitrary 
mandates  of  my  elders,  who  interfered  with  me. 
She  was  thirty-eight,  and  I  was  twelve.     I  could 

[60] 


GRANITE  AND  GRASS 


4m 


not  sleep  the  night  after  1  called  her  Mabel,  look- 
ing ^yly  into  her  smiling  eyes.  She  curtsied  to 
me,  laughed  softly,  and  sometimes  I  thought  she 
grew  rosy  when  I  kissed  her  hand.  Once,  for  a 
long  time,  I  sat  at  her  feet,  my  cheek  against  her 
knee. 

Mr.  Churchill  was  very  wealthy  then,  and  this, 
my  lady,  was  the  good  fairy  of  our  suburban  town. 
I  was  sad  because  her  many  social  duties  kept  me 
from  her.  When  others  were  seated  with  her, 
under  the  Japanese  lanterns  on  the  lawn,  I  lay  in 
the  shadow  watching  her.  How  could  she  seem* 
so  merry  when  she  confessed  to  me  afterwards  it 
was  all  a  bore?  When  the  guests  were  gone  she 
would  come  to  my  shadow,  take  my  hand,  lean 
back  and  close  her  eyes  in  weariness.  And  then 
Mr.  Churchill  would  come,  and  after  a  time  of 
peace,  they  would  talk  with  me  about  the  mysteries 
of  life  and  religion,  for  these  things  were  a  tor- 
ment to  me  then. 

Mr.  Churchill  was  my  teacher  in  our  Sunday- 
school,  and  the  substance  of  his  teaching  was  that 
it  was  not  wise  to  speculate  too  much  upon  these 
mysteries ;  that  in  this  maze  of  life  one  would  be 
lost  unless  he  kept  a  hold  on  faith ;  that  to  be  good 

[6i] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


I  must  love  God,  and  that  if  I  was  good  I  would, 
perhaps,  be  happy. 

Life,  however,  in  its  material  phases,  was  evi- 
dently a  mystery  a  man  must  solve.  He  told  me 
often  that  the  smallest  detail  was  of  great 
importance,  and  that  to  succeed  I  must  master 
them. 

"If  you  do,"  he  said,  "they  will  fit  you  to  make 
use  of  opportunities  others  pass  by." 

He  was  the  one  who  acquainted  me  with  that 
dazzling  gala:xy  of  men  who  had  risen  from  pov- 
erty to  great  wealth. 

"Remember,"  he  would  say,  "that  Marshall 
Field  began  with  as  little  as  you." 

About  this  time,  Mr.  Churchill  was  induced  to 
merge  his  business  into  one  of  the  earlier  trusts. 
He  became  involved  in  a  dispute  over  his  position, 
withdrew  in  defense  of  his  rights,  compelled  his 
associates  to  his  point  of  view,  and  when  the  trust 
was  formed,  waged  a  merciless  war  upon  those 
companies  that  would  not  come  in.  In  this  in- 
stance, the  independents  were  the  stronger,  and 
Mr.  Churchill  lost  his  fortune  in  the  end.  His 
health  was  undermined,  and  when,  years  later,  his 
scheme  was  forced  through  by  other  men,  he  Wcis 

[62] 


GRANITE  AND  GRASS 


^n™w 


glad  to  take  a  modest  position  with  them  at  two 
thousand  a  year. 

I  experienced  a  shock  when,  entering  their 
apartments  in  Harlem,  I  took  Mrs.  Churchill's 
hand.  She  might  have  been  the  grandmother  of 
my  Mabel.  Distress  lurked  in  her  countenance, 
and  yet  there  was  the  spirit  of  perennial  spring  in 
her  eyes.  They  filled  quickly  as  I  kissed  her  hand, 
and  this  time  I  knew  the  blush  was  there. 

"How  I  have  changed,"  she  said.  Her  voice  no 
mcfre  than  reached  me,  and  yet  in  my  heart  it 
sounded  like  a  wail. 

"But  I  am  not  unhappy,"  she  said  anxiously, 

"Of  course  not,"  I  said  lightly.  "Why  should 
you  be?" 

Until  her  son  arrived,  however,  there  was  not  a 
moment  when  the  shadow  of  loss  was  entirely 
lifted.  Is  it  possible,  I  thought,  that  a  sane  person 
in  comfort  can  really  grieve  for  the  added  posses- 
sions and  social  place  that  once  wearied  them? 
With  her  son  beside  her  at  the  table,  she  became 
more  animated.  Her  eyes  were  brighter,  and 
sometimes,  as  they  turned  toward  him,  they  were 
all  alight.  This  was  love,  no  doubt,  but  the  sparkle 
of  it  was  caused  by  hope. 

[63] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


The  boy  was  a  clerk  in  a  commission  house,  and 
when  the  first  diffidence  was  overcome  he  told 
me  of  his  duties,  becoming  enthusiastic  as  he 
talked. 

"My  chances  are  good,"  he  assured  me'  with 
sparkling  eyes.  "If  anything  should  happen  to 
the  shipping  clerk,  I  will  get  his  job." 

"And  then  what?"  I  asked  politely. 

"Well,  of  course,  I  want  to  be  a  salesman  some 
day,  and  when  I  have  learned  the  business  and 
got  acquainted,  I  expect  to  start  in  for  myself." 
He  smiled  in  the  half -apologetic  manner  of  a  boy 
who  is  afraid  his  ambition  may  seem  presump- 
tuous; but  in  his  mother's  eyes  the  flame  of  hope 
burned  bright. 

"And  then?"  I  asked  him. 

He  stared  at  me  in  amazement. 

"Why,  then,"  he  answered,  "I  shall  be  all 
right." 

"Yes,"  said  his  father,  like  an  echo  from  other 
years  upon  his  distant  lawn,  "Charles  M.  Schwab 
began  with  less." 

When  I  rose  to  go  Mr.  Churchill  asked  me 
where  I  was  stopping,  and  I  told  him  that  I  had 
not  yet  begun  to  stop. 

[64] 


GRANITE  AND  GRASS 


JirMirirrrTB 


"We  can't  offer  beds  as  we  used  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Churchill  sadly. 

"Such  things  are  not  so  important  on  these 
summer  nights." 

This  was  taken  as  a  bit  of  pleasant  humor,  and 
I  left  them  smiling  at  the  quaint  conceit. 

I  walked  past  endless  rows  of  hotels  and  dwell- 
ings, gaping  first  in  senseless  wonder  at  the  wrecks 
of  buildings,  the  half-dug  cellars,  the  rising  walls 
of  stone,  the  litter  of  material,  the  derricks,  scaf- 
foldings and  the  countless  structures  finished  yes- 
terday. They  were  tearing  down  good  buildings 
to  build  larger,  better  ones.  At  last  the  signifi- 
cance of  this  spectacle  joined  me  and  cheered  my 
way.    It  spoke  serenely,  saying : 

"Splendor  has  a  virtue  that  pride  cannot  ab- 
sorb. Enterprise,  though  it  be  greedy,  may  dig 
forth  treasures  and  pile  them  into  piles,  but  Van- 
ity may  keep  exclusive  only  the  burdens  that  en- 
cumber, and  those  baubles  which  lose  their  value 
when  worn  about  the  common  neck." 

"I  think  that's  so,"  I  answered,  "But  not  to- 
night.   To-night  I'll  let  Cornelius  sleep  alone." 

In  Riverside  Park  I  found  a  man  dozing  on  a 
bench  flooded  with  electric  light.     He  lifted  hi3 

[65] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^fi^iw 


head  quickly  at  my  approach,  saw  no  uniform  and 
was  at  peace. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked. 

I  made  a  guess,  and  sat  down  to  talk. 

"Why  don't  you  get  out  of  this  light?  You 
would  sleep  better  on  the  grass  ofif  there." 

"I  don't  like  to  bother  the  cop." 

I  laughed,  and  he  gave  me  a  kind  of  ogling 
glance. 

"Does  that  make  you  happy?" 

"If  we  are  wise,"  I  said,  "we  will  be  happy." 

I  took  my  manuscript  from  the  bag,  held  it 
to  the  light  and  read  it  through.  He  listened,  his 
somewhat  bleary  eyes  cocked  on  me  shrewdly. 

There  was  a  decent  silence,  then  he  said : 

"That  sounds  first-rate.  It's  what  I  call  pcv- 
etical.  I'm  an  educated  man,  but  I  have  been  a 
fool.  If  we  are  wise  we  will  be  happy,  and  if  we 
are  happy  we  will  be  good.  That's  the  gist  of  the 
idea,  eh?  But,  supposing  you're  a  fool?  You 
know  I'm  not  the  only  one."  He  chuckled  to 
himself  and  added  :  "I  think  you'd  be  more  useful 
if  you'd  find  out  how  to  be  happy  and  a  fool." 

"All  right.  Be  a  happy  fool,  and  Wisdom  will 
include  your  folly." 

[66] 


n 


en 


o 

c 

3 


r- 
> 

CTQ 


GRANITE  AND  GRASS 


"I  hate  to  ask  it/'  he  said,  "but  could  you  give 
me  fifteen  cents  for  a  bed  ?  Just  think  of  it !  I 
am  reduced  to  begging  for  a*  bed." 

When  he  was  gone  I  walked  to  darker  regions 
and,  finding  a  little  mound,  lay  down-  beside  it 
and  slept  soundly  on  the  grass.  In  the  morning 
I  found  that  my  pillow  was  a  grave.  On  the 
headstone,  almost  hidden  by  the  grass,  was  cut 
this  white  inscription: 

"In  Memory  of  an  Amiable  Child." 

Amazing  epitaph!  placed  there  by  unknown 
hands,  and  now  preserved^ — by  whom,  for  what? 
— ^upon  this  public  hillside. 

Then  I  knew  that  this  city  had  a  soul,  for  in 
its  progress  it  had  reverently  stepped  over  this. 

From  here  I  could  see  Grant's  Tomb.  Was 
the  city,  then,  a  thing  with  vast  and  barbarous 
ambitions  and  a  little  soul? 

The  sun  upon  my  eyes  had  wakened  me.  The 
driver  of  a  milk  wagon  drove  whistling  down  the 
boulevard.  The  breeze  was  balmy.  The  river 
reflected  the  tints  of  early  morning.  The  palaces 
across  the  avenue  revealed  a  natural  beauty  no 

[69] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


.^/itirirr'-rB 


artifice  could  hide,  and  even  here  beside  the  as- 
phalt, through  boughs  and  irritable  sparrows  and 
carping  insects,  the  familiar  optimistic  voices 
hummed  to  me. 

While  I  may  choose  my  way,  I  will  not  hesi- 
tate between  that  pile  of  granite  and  this  mound 
of  grass. 


[70] 


MBHllllHBHiHk 


CHAPTER    V. 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH. 


■^'  .    ,--1 

:  r 

! 

>^ 

H 

HE  boarding-house  proved  to  be 
an  old-fashioned,  four-story 
residence  of  plain  brownstone, 
flanked  by  Muschenheim's  and 
the  Life  Building.  It  was  an 
unlikely  place  to  find  a  dear 
lady.  Her  little  sitting-room,  with  its  whatnot 
in  the  corner,  round  marble-top  table  covered 
with  an  embroidered  doily,  her  work  basket  and 
Bible,  and  a  few  books  of  poems  and  essays ;  with 
its  two  cushioned  rockers  and  one  cane-bottom 
chair,  was  a  little  gem  of  New  England  in  this 
modern  Babylon.  She  was  a  cousin  of  Phillips 
Brooks.  I  sometimes  thought  it  singular  that  she 
should  gain  distinction  from  this  fact.  All  the 
human  tenderness,  the  rugged  faith,  the  quick 
resentment  of  all  unorthodox  conceits,  the  spirit 

[71] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


of  generosity,  of  affection,  beauty  and  simplicity 
that  made  his  sermons  famous,  shone  from  her 
face.  She  had  for  thirty  years  conducted  a  New 
York  boarding-house  successfully,  and  like  a  true 
•Christian.  Did  that  not  require  as  much  genius 
as  to  conduct  a  church  ? 

She  was  past  seventy  when  she  took  me  under 
her  watchful  and  sympathetic  eye.  Her  hair  was 
gray,  fluted  at  the  sides,  and  covered  with  a  square 
of  lace.  Her  skin  was  fair  and  sensitive.  She 
personally  did  her  own  marketing,  going  forth 
in  the  morning  with  a  cane,  moving  slowly — a 
distinguished  and  exquisite  figure  of  age,  main- 
taining in  herself  the  personality  of  a  passing  day, 
serenely  observant  of  a  new  rod  that  hemmed  her 
in,  crowding  closer  and  closer  tO'  her  door.  Hour 
after  hour  she  sat  by  her  first-floor  window  and 
looked  out  upon  the  busy  street.  These  hand- 
some men  and  women  were  good  to  see.  She 
wore  good  black  cashmere  herself,  but  the  bril- 
liant costumes  of  these  ladies,  who  stepped  from 
carriages  and  swept  with  smiles  and  laughter  to 
the  restaurant  stairs,  burst  upon  her  view  and  gave 
her  a  wholesome  pleasure,  uncritical  and  sane. 
She  never  mentioned  the  midnight  orgies,  the  fre- 

[72] 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


.fruvim' 


qiient  wild  sounds  of  revelry ;  but  I  have  seen  her 
blush  at  them. 

She  could  look  with  kindly  eyes  upon  the  but- 
terflies of  pleasure  and  yearn  over  the  thoughtless 
failings  of  the  foolish,  but  her  neighbor,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  brilliant  spirit  of  cynicism  work- 
ing silently  within  its  ornate  temples  filled  her 
with  a  kind  of  dread,  and  so,  between  the  flesh 
and  the  devil  she  kept  an  unobtrusive  portal  lead- 
ing to  the  narrow  way. 

After  a  little  visit  by  her  front  window  she  ac- 
cepted me  without  references.  I  was  to  pay  seven 
dollars  a  week  for  a  cosy  hall  bedroom  and  three 
good  meals  a  day. 

"There  is  the  money  for  the  first  week,"  I  said, 
leaning  toward  her  and  dropping  the  bills  in  her 
lap. 

"But  it  is  all  you  have?"  she  ventured, 
anxiouslv. 

"There  is  thirty  cents  left  for  a  toothbrush  and 
a  cake  of  soap." 

"And  carfare?" 

"I  like  to  walk." 

"You  need  some  one  to  look  after  you.  Let 
"me  see  vour  bag." 

[73] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


She  opened  it  and  poked  within  as  my  mother 
used  to  do. 

"Don't  you  brush  your  hair?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  must  get  me  a  hairbrush, 
two  shirts,  four  collars,  some  stockings  and 
underwear.  I  shall  wear  cuffs,  for  they 
look  nice,  if  I  can  get  them  without  a  chain  and 
ball." 

"In  a  way,"  she  answered,  "that  reminds  me 
of  Thoreau." 

She  took  a  book  from  her  table  and  read  a 
paragraph  or  two. 

"Thoreau  and  Emerson  combined  come  pretty 
near  the  truth.  But  perhaps  we  should  add  Ches- 
terfield and  this  new  philosopher,  the  young  Mr. 
Rockefeller,  too." 

"Come — do  keep  this  money  for  the  present.  I 
can  wait." 

"I  think  I  can  get  a  few  dollars  without  en- 
gaging upon  a  prolonged  chase  for  a  million." 

"Is  it  so  bad  as  that  ?" 

"I  have  just  escaped  from  twenty  years  of  it. 
One  must  look  out.  Once  I  made  five  thousand 
dollars  in  eight  months,  and  still  I  needed  a  little 
more  to  pay  a  bill  for  fourteen  pairs  of  cuffs." 

[74] 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


^nW 


She  lifted  her  hands,  murmuring,  "What  ex- 
travagance !" 

"Of  course  it  was,"  I  said.  "Do  men  scheme 
and  toil  extravagantly  that  they  may  live  temper- 
ate lives?" 

She  went  out  to  buy  her  Sunday  roast,  and  I 
went  with  her. 

Between  the  house  and  an  old-fashioned  iron 
fence  was  a  little  grassy  space  of  about  six  feet. 
Coming  to  the  gate,  we  encountered  the  mother 
and  daughter  I  had  seen  at  the  Waldorf.  I  op- 
ened the  gate  and  waited.  They  smilingly  per- 
mitted the  older  lady  tO'  pass  out.  Then  they 
passed  in  with  a  graceful,  impersonal  recognition 
of  my  services,  but  in  the  daughter's  eyes  was  a 
quick,  frank  look  of  surprise,  and  I  thought  that 
a  spirit  of  mischief  lurked  in  the  dimples  as  she 
smiled  her  thanks. 

On  the  corner  of  Broadway  stands  a  large 
clothing  house,  the  windows  filled  with  proper 
figures,  wanting  only  a  spark  of  life  sufficient  to 
send  them  airily  down  Broadway.  They  all  wore 
cuffs,  and  no  one  could  doubt  for  a  moment  that 
their  hair  was  brushed. 

I  went  inside,  bought  my  toothbrush  and  cake 

[75] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


'^f  rfviriFriirp 


of  soap,  and  asked  for  the  manager.  I  found  him 
talking  to  a  salesman  in  the  rear.  He  was  a  big, 
handsome  man,  with  a  trim  black  mustache  and 
rosy,  olive  skin.  His  thick  black  hair  was  parted 
cleanly  in  the  middle.  His  sparkling  black  eyes 
were  alive  with  intelligence  concerning  gents'  fur- 
nishing goods. 

"I  want  a  hairbrush,"  I  said.  He  bowed  and 
motioned  amiably,  saying,  "In  front — ^to  the 
right." 

"But,"  I  said,  "I  would  like  to  earn  it  if  I  may. 
Would  it  be  possible  to  find  work  here  for  a  hair- 
brush, and  no  more?" 

He  looked  me  over,  saw  that  my  clothes  were 
good,  and  that  my  eye  was  sane.  He  smiled  and 
said : 

"Is  this  a  campaign  bet?" 

"All  I  need  in  the  world  at  this  minute  is  a 
hairbrush.  I  would  like  to  get  it  without  binding 
myself  to  service  by  the  month." 

"Is  it  an  assignment  for  a  Sunday  paper?" 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  I  said,  looking  at  him 
thoughtfully. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  might  help  you  out."  He 
led  the  way  to  the  parcel  counter,  looked  over  the 

[76] 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


addresses,  selected  five,  and  said :  "If  you  will  de- 
liver these  I  will  give  you  a  hairbrush  worth  fifty 
cents." 

I  took  up  two  of  the  bundles  and  briskly  went 
my  way. 

The  first  one  was  for  a  physician  on  Thirtieth 
street,  near  Fifth  avenue.  The  hallboy  took  the 
bundles  and  the  slip  to  be  signed  and,  returning, 
told  me  to  wait  until  the  clothes  had  been  tried 
on.  From  the  reception  room.  I  presently  heard 
the  physician  dismissing  a  patient. 

"Cheer  up  now,"  he  said,  "or  you  will  only 
make  things  worse." 

His  tone  was  rich,  full  and  reassuring — that 
of  a  man  whose  health  was  good  and  who  could 
look  upon  sickness  philosophically. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  suddenly  confronted 
me,  indignation  in  his  eye. 

"They  never  altered  them  at  all !"  he  exclaimed, 
throwing  the  clothes  upon  the  table.  "You  can 
take  them  back  and  tell  them  that  I  am  very  much 
annoyed  by  this  delay." 

"Cheer  up,"  I  said. 

"What's  that?"  he  snapped. 

"Cheer  up,  or  you'll  only  make  things  worse." 

[77] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Ww 


"Young  man,"  he  remarked  with  dignity,  "I 
shall  report  your  impertinence,  you  may  be  sure." 

The  second  bundle,  like  a  fairy  hand,  led  me 
into  an  inner  room,  where  a  famous  editor  of  a 
famous  magazine  sat  at  his  desk  reading  with 
weary  eyes  a  manuscript  entitled,  "The  Light  of 
Our  Civilization  Illuminates  Japan."  The  door, 
with  his  name  upon  it,  had  been  left  open.  There 
had  been  no  one  to  stop  me,  and  so  I  had 
stepped  inside,  and  then  this  suddenly  seemed 
to  be  one  of  those  golden  opportunities  we  read 
about. 

"I  have  an  article." 

"Leave  it  with  the  boy  outside." 

"Here  is  a  bundle  from  " 

"Leave  it  with  the  boy  outside." 

I  began  to  succumb  tO'  the  sense  of  remoteness 
that  filled  the  silent  room.     Still,  I  faltered : 

"Will  you  sign  this  slip?" 

"Give  it  to  the  boy  outside." 

And  in  a  voice  that  had,  in  spite  of  me,  become 
sepulchral,  I  said : 

"There  is  no  boy  outside." 

He  looked  quickly  up  at  this,  and  banged  a  bell 
savagelv  until  a  startled  boy  appeared. 

[78] 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


"What  do  you  mean  by  running  about?  I 
can't  be  interrupted  in  this  way." 

We  retired  hastily,  leaving  him  to  the  civiliza- 
tion that  illuminates  Japan. 

The  manager  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  door. 
"Here,"  he  said,  "I  don't  think  you'll  do." 
"I  suppose  not,"  I  answered,  "but  let  me  deliver 
the  others.    It  won't  be  long." 

He  took  the  returned  bundle,  saying : 
"What  did  you  do  to  the  doctor,  anyway  ?" 
"Did  you  hear  from  him?" 
"Did  I  ?    He  almost  broke  the  'phone." 
"He  was  mad  because  they  didn't  fit ;  I  told  him 
to  cheer  up,  and  that  only  made  things  worse." 
As  I  took  the  remaining  bundles  the  manager 
watched  me  with  an  uncertain  mind. 

"This  may  be  fun  for  you,"  he  said,  "but  it's 
only  fair  for  you  to  do  it  right." 

"Like  I  wanted  to  some  day  own  the  store?" 
"That's  it,"  he  answered,  brightening.    "That's 
the  way." 

"And  he  polished  up  the  handle  so  carefully  that 
now  he's  the  ruler  of  the  Queen's  Navee.  You 
know,"  I  added,  "that  was  one  of  the  things  writ- 
ten by  order  of  the  Crown  to  inspire  enlistment 

[79] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


v;hen  the  British  youth  began  to  doubt  the  real 
joys  and  glories  of  the  service.  The  author  was 
knighted  for  his  success  in  allaying  that  sus- 
picion." 

A  moment  more  of  this  and  the  manager  would 
have  asked  me  to  take  my  brush  and  go,  so  I 
hurried  out,  delivering  two  bundles,  oblivious  of 
incident,  with  all  the  concentrated  alertness  of  an 
ambitious  lad  who  had  in  him  the  making  of  a 
merchant  prince. 

The  last  errand  took  me  to  a  room  resounding 
with  outlandish  sounds.  Through  a  haze  of  to- 
bacco smoke  I  saw  a  number  of  people  lounging, 
talking,  walking  up  and  down. 

At  a  piano  in  one  corner  a  lady  with  a  very 
droll  countenance,  very  blonde  hair  and  a  gor- 
geous hat  and  gown,  was  trying  a  new  song,  with 
the  assistance  of  an  amiable  accompanist. 

At  another  piano  in  another  corner  a  very  fat 
man  was  hanging,  as  it  were,  over  the  keys, 
thrumming  and  humming  a  song  he  was  com- 
posing. I  suspected  that  his  was  the  name  upon 
my  bundle,  for  I  had  heard  of  it  before.  The 
song  was  very  sad,  and  in  spite  of  his  exuberant, 
well-fed  appearance,  he  seemed  to  feel  it.    I  surely 

[80] 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


*^^\f^ 


saw  a  tear  roll  down  his  big  fat  face  as,  a  verse 
completed,  he  sang  it  softly  through. 

"I  think  that  will  fetch  'em,"  he  said,  turning 
to  a  friend  upon  his  left,  and  he  tenderly  repeated 
the  refrain :  "When  Mother  Says  Good-by." 

He  turned  about  with  a  broad  smile  and  a 
sparkle  of  satisfaction  in  his  eyes,  took  the  bundle, 
asked  how  all  the  sports  were  in  the  store,  taking 
me,  I  suppose,  for  a  new  clerk  who  had  been 
pressed  into  messenger  service,  signed  my  slip 
with  a  bold  hand,  arose,  patted  his  protruding 
stomach  absently,  and  sauntered  out  the  door. 

As  I  followed,  admiring  his  easy  roll,  I  noticed 
the  sign  of  a  somewhat  obscure  periodical  and, 
on  an  impulse,  climbed  the  stairs. 

In  a  dingy  little  room,  just  large  enough  for 
two  chairs  and  a  table,  I  found  my  friend.  That 
much  was  determined  the  moment  I  looked  into 
his  eyes.  Deep,  sympathetic,  questioning,  ready 
to  receive  or  to  bestow. 

We  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  smiled 
and  became  at  once  intimate,  as  from  our  youth 
up.  He  took  the  manuscript  I  handed  him,  and 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  read  it  through. 

For  me  the  room   was   no  longer  dark   and 

[8i] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


shabby — it  was  a  cosy  corner  of  my  home.  From 
the  table  between  us  rose  famiHar  forms,  and  I 
knew  that  my  friend,  in  those  scattered  pages  be- 
fore him,  had  been  summoning  to  earth  our  mu- 
tual companions  in  Dreamland. 

"I  would  like  to  use  this,"  he  said,  "but  I  can 
only  offer  you  fifteen  dollars  for  it.  I  am  limited 
to  a  cent  a  word." 

"I  could  use  five  dollars  of  it  now." 

He  made  out  an  order  for  the  entire  amount. 

"If  you  are  free,"  he  said,  "we  might  lunch 
together.  We  can  stop  on  our  way  and  get  this 
cashed." 

In  the  office  were  a  number  of  girls  folding 
and  addressing  circulars  and  working  tensely  at 
typewriters.  Men  with  green  shades  over  their 
eyes  were  pointing  their  noses  at  ledgers,  and 
other  men  and  boys  were  carrying  packages,  like 
ants  scurrying  about  the  business  of  a  great  com- 
mune. But  this  was  no  commune.  In  the  midst 
of  it  a  short,  thin  man  moved  with  quick  gestures, 
short  orders  and  sharp  glances  from  his  rest- 
less eyes. 

My  friend  caught  him,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
fly,  handed  him  the  order,  and  watched  him  run 

[82] 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


«r*tirir,r  TB 


off  with  it.  In  course. of  time  he  managed  to 
countersign  it  and  hand  it  to  us  as  we  passed. 

"What  is  he  doing?" 

"He  is  succeeding."  * 

We  got  the  money  from  the  cashier  and,  reach- 
ing the  street,  heard  the  pandemonium  of  pianos 
and  voices  from  the  room  where  Mother  said 
Good-by. 

"What  are  they  doing  in  there?" 

"Succeeding." 

"And  you?" 

"I  am  drawing  a  good  salary.  The  things  I 
am  able  to  get  the  boss  to  publish  that  I  believe 
in  are  very  few.  The  rest  must  tickle  the  vanity 
or  cater  to  the  foibles  and  prejudices  of  readers. 
From  my  standpoint,  I  am  not  succeeding." 

At  lunch  I  told  him  of  the  little  tombstone  in 
memory  of  the  amiable  child.  His  eyes  glowed 
as  he  said : 

"Write  me  something  about  that." 

We  talked  of  love,  of  beauty,  of  happiness; 
we  revealed  to  each  other  memories  that  made  our 
eyes  moist,  and  we  felt  no  shame.  As  we  pressed 
this  vintage,  articles  appeared  like  drops  of  wine. 
By  labor  of  the  most  delightful  kind,  two  hours 

[83] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^nW 


a  day  for  about  two  weeks  at  what  I  wished  to 
write,  I  could  secure  my  expenses  for  four  months 
or  more.  How  difficult  it  is,  I  thought,  to  escape 
a  surplus. 

"I  have  a  subject  for  you,"  said  my  friend. 
"You  can  write  it  for  another  magazine." 

There  was  a  fine  light  in  his  eyes  as  he  leaned 
forward,  saying,  "It's  about  the  foundlings." 

"Good  heavens,"  I  exclaimed,  "that  has  been 
written  about  for  a  hundred  years!" 

"That's  just  the  trouble,"  he  said,  "the  very 
reason  why  it  should  be  written  about  again. 

"Let  me  tell  you  how  I  happened  to  get  this 
idea.  One  storm.y  day  last  winter  I  was  passing 
by  the  New  York  Foundling  Asylum,  when  a  girl 
turned  from  the  walk  and  hastened  to  the  lower 
entrance.  She  carried  a  bundle,  and  I  knew  by  the 
way  she  held  it  what  it  contained.  She  rang  the 
bell,  and  this  fact  interested  me,  for  these  poor 
creatures  usually  place  their  babies  in  the  criB 
in  the  vestibule  outside  and  hurry  stealthily  away ; 
but  now  I  saw  (here  he  looked  at  me  impress- 
ively) that  there  was  no  crib  in  the  vestibule.  I 
knew  it  used  to  be  there,  and  wondered  why  it 
had  been  taken  inside.     I  immediately  rang  the 

[84] 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


bell,  and  was  admitted.  The  girl  was  seated  in 
the  reception  hall.  The  old  clothes  about  fier 
bundle  had  been  partially  removed,  and  a  little  of 
the  child's  face  had  been  uncovered. 

"I  was  suddenly  impressed  by  the  fact  that  the 
hall  was  finished  in  bright  kalsomine  and  polished 
wood.  It  was  so  warm  and  clean,  and  smelled 
so  sweet  that  it  seemed  a  cheerful  place,  in  spite 
of  the  gloomy  day. 

"In  the  center  of  the  floor  was  a  wicker  cradle 
containing  a  mattress  covered  with  a  fine  white 
sheet.  There  was  a  pillow  trimmed  with  wide 
embroidery,  and  the  word  'Baby'  was  worked 
across  the  front  in  blue  silk.  There  was  a  clean 
blue  and  white  canopy  over  the  cradle,  with  the 
curtains  held  back  by  new  ribbons. 

"I  expected  to  witness  an  unpleasant  scene.  And 
when  they've  kept  her  waiting  long  enough,  I 
thought,  some  hard-featured  woman  of  foreboding 
virtue  will  come  for  the  child,  read  the  girl  a  lec- 
ture, and  warn  her  to  make  no  effort  to  see  the 
baby  again.  She  will  have  a  very  enjoyable  ten 
minutes — will  this  representative  of  the  church 
and  city — and  when  she  has  added  all  she  can 
to  the  humiliation  of  the  victim  will  dismiss  her 

[85] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


to  the  merry  streets.  This  expectation  was  war- 
ranted by  what  I  had  seen  in  plays  and  books. 
Now,  this  is  what  happened :  A  sister  entered,  and 
quickly  going  toward  the  girl,  apologized  for  the 
delay. 

"  'What  a  pretty  baby !'  she  said,  taking  the 
little  one  from  the  bundle.    *Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl  ?' 

"  'A  girl,'  said  the  mother. 

"  'Have  you  named  her  yet?' 

"  'No.' 

"  'She  is  pretty  young  to  be  named,'  and  the 
sister  bent  over  the  baby  so  that  the  little  hand 
that  was  reaching  out  could  touch  her  bonnet. 

"  'Is  there  any  name  you  want  to  give  her?' 

"There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  there 
came  a  very  low  answer :  'No.' 

"  'You  are  the  mother  ?' 

"  'Yes.' 

"  'I  am  glad  of  that.  We  like  to  have  the  chil- 
dren, especially  the  young  babies,  brought  to  us 
by  the  mothers.  Well,  now,  if  you  will  take  your 
daughter  and  place  her  in  the  cradle  we  will  send 
her  up  to  be  looked  after.  Do  you  want  to  give 
the  baby  to  us  ?' 

"The  girl  took  the  child  and  held  it  for  a  long 

[86] 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


time  silently.  She  was  hesitating.  She  had,  of 
course,  brought  it  there  for  that  purpose,  but  it 
was  hard  to  do. 

"Presently  the  sister  asked,  quietly : 

"  'Would  you  like  to  stay  here  with  the  child?' 

"The  girl  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  'I  haven't  any  money — I  haven't  anything 
at  all.' 

"  'You  won't  need  anything  if  you  come  here. 
You  can  help  take  care  of  your  baby.' 

"Then  the  girl  broke  down.  When  this  scene 
was  over  I  talked  with  the  sister,  and  she  told  me 
that  she  used  to  leave  the  cradle  outside  the  door, 
but  she  said,  'We  found  that  it  was  often  as  great 
a  charity  to  receive  the  mother  as  it  is  the  child. 
They  are  almost  always  young,  and  so  far  as  real 
morality  is  concerned,  they  are  innocent.  They 
need  a  good  atmosphere,  education,  and,  above  all 
things,  having  brought  them  into  the  world,  they 
need  their  babies.' 

"Now,"  said  my  friend,  "I  went  all  through 
that  institution.  You  will  be  amazed.  Go 
up  there.  You  will  get  something  good  out  of 
it." 

"Indeed  I  will." 

[87] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"I  tell  you,  that  taking  the  crib  inside  is  an  evi- 
dence of  progress  that  fairly  shouts." 

"Who  did  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it  was  just  one  of 
those  great  things  that  drop — like  the  gentle 
dew." 

When  he  left  me  I  bought  a  paper  and,  walking 
to  Madison  Square,  sat  down  to  read.  In  a  col- 
umn of  odds  and  ends  I  found  my  poem. 

"The  following  lines,"  it  said,  "were  picked  up 
on  Fifth  avenue,  near  Twenty-fifth  street,  yes- 
terday afternoon : 

"  *My  soul  greets  the  soul  of  the  sunlight, 

I  feel  a  caress  in  the  rain. 
There  are  blossoms  that  spring  from  the  pavement, 

Companions  for  me  on  the  plain. 

"  'The  winds,  as  they  pass,  bring  a  message, 

And  bear  one  from  me  as  they  go; 
A  post  that  delivers  my  missives. 

To  those  I  have  known  or  might  know. 

"  *At  random  I  send  forth  my  treasures, 

By  vessels  outbound  on  the  sea, 
And  every  man's  incoming  cargo 

Has  ingots  and  spices  for  me.' 

[88] 


Summer  in  Madison  Square. 
(The  Tower  of  Madison  Square.) 


THE  NEED  OF  A  HAIRBRUSH 


"It  is  said  that  Russell  Sage  dropped  this  as 
he  was  walking  home  in  the  sunlight  after  a  day 
of  busy  coupon-clipping  and  rent-collecting.  Did 
he  receive  this  from  some  one  in  lieu  of  rent? 
If  so,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  an  eviction  followed.  If 
Mr.  Sage  wrote  it  this  foolish  poem  becomes  some- 
thing. In  that  case,  as  a  bit  of  frank  naivete,  it 
is  simply  great!" 

And  so,  after  all,  it  was  Honesty,  Industry  and 
Thrift  that  had  given  a  significance  to  my  verse. 

In  pleasant  meditation  I  walked  to  the  board- 
ing-house and  went  upstairs  to  get  ready  for  din- 
ner. Standing  before  the  mirror,  I  remembered 
the  hairbrush  I  had  forgotten  to  claim. 


[91] 


mJtOUB^^m 


CHAPTER    VI. 


INTIMATE  STRANGERS. 


E  have  made  of  society  a  kind  of 
horse  show.  We  enter  our- 
selves, and  etiquette  is  a  col- 
lection of  rules  by  which  our 
points  are  judged. 

We  are  not  innocent,  be- 
cause we  are  content  to  be  respectable.  We  are 
not  happy,  because  we  wish  to  be  admired. 

I  can  eat  toast  without  making  a  noise.  Be- 
hold, my  napkin  is  across  my  knee.  I  sip  my 
soup  from  the  back  of  my  spoon.  Prejudiced 
judges  may  withhold  a  blue  ribbon,  but,  thank 
God,  I  cannot  be  excluded  from  the  show. 

There  were  three  single  ladies  who  sat  opposite 
me  at  the  table,  whose  very  silence  made  the  web 
kin   ring.      "Be  careful,"  shrieked  their  eyelids, 

[92] 


INTIMATE  STRANGERS 


^Ww 


"what  you  say  or  do,  for  we  have  our  positions 
to  maintain." 

They  reminded  me  of  the  guardians  of  the 
park.  In  their  presence  none  but  a  fool  or  a  mad- 
man would  pick  a  flower  or  put  his  feet  upon  the 
grass.  As  a  reward  for  keeping  in  the  middle  of 
the  walk,  I  was  invited  to  their  rooms  and  per- 
mitted to  stroll  with  them  over  such  portions  of 
the  common  as  are  designated  for  public  use  by 
flags  floating  from  conspicuous  poles. 

We  spent  the  evening  skirting  the  edges.  The 
game  consisted  in  preventing  Miss  Minnie,  the 
younger  of  the  three,  from  tripping  over  the 
border,  or  telling  what  she  thought  she  saw  when 
peeping  through  the  brush. 

I  longed  to  take  these  ladies  by  the  hand  and 
lead  them  into  the  prohibited  places,  that  they 
might  see  how  beautiful  and  harmless  they 
were  Would  it  have  reassured  them  to  be  told 
that  these  also  were  the  haunts  of  God  and 
His  angels?  They  would  have  thought  me 
irreverent  or  irrelevant — synonymous  terms  to 
them. 

They  were  not  seeking  for  beauty,  but  for  the 
credit  of  circumspection — a  dull  game,  indeed, 

[93] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


.t''.9^wtttnrvU 


were  it  not  for  the  imaginary  evils  they  were 
escaping. 

It  would  be  cruel  to  convince  them  of  this,  for 
their  pride  was  in  it.  It  would  be  cruel — but  have 
no  fear  for  them,  it  is  impossible. 

The  gentleman  upon  my  right  was  lean,  and 
he  upon  my  left  was  stout.  The  one  looked  like 
Mr.  Evarts,  the  other  like  Mr.  Morgan.  If  there 
were  other  and  profounder  differences  between 
them,  we  could  not  know  it,  for  all  differences 
were  punctiliously  concealed.  We  could  talk  of 
the  weather,  of  foreign  and  domestic  events,  if 
we  raised  no  issue,  of  the  sermons  of  orthodox 
ministers,  of  the  Grand  Opera,  ignoring,  of 
course,  any  moral  significance  in  the  themes,  and 
we  might  mention  in  a  casual  way  that  the  stock 
market  was  up  or  down. 

Both  my  neighbors  were  courteous.  They  did 
not  speak  often,  but  when  they  did  they  spoke 
clearly.  I  concluded  without  any  evidence  that 
the  one  upon  the  right,  the  lean  one,  was  a  bach- 
elor. He  could  turn  a  phrase  in  such  a  way  as  to 
permit  the  single  ladies  to  suspect  a.  joke  and  in- 
dulge a  smile.  I  imagine  he  had  it  in  him  to 
raise  their  hair,  but  of  this  I  was  not  sure. 

[94] 


INTIMATE  STRANGERS 


Our  two  families  had  tables  by  themselves.  The 
Bigelows  were  so  seated  that  I  could  see  the  eyes 
of  the  daughter  when  they  lifted,  but  only  the 
backs  or  profiles  of  the  other  three. 

The  Townsends  were  but  two — an  imposing 
couple,  very  large,  very  wealthy,  but  genial  and 
simple  with  it  all. 

Mr.  Townsend  was  a  kind  of  composite  pic- 
ture of  the  Quaker  of  Quaker  Oats,  Prince  Bis- 
marck, General  Miles  and  DeWolf  Hopper.  His 
wife  was  Wilhelmina,  enormously  enlarged.  Her 
eyes  were  frank  and  luminous.  Her  full  round 
cheeks  were  as  soft  and  brilliant  as  the  petals  of 
crimson  poppies.  They  were  often  out,  but  when 
they  were  home  they  spent  the  evenings  at  back- 
gammon, and  I  was  sometimes  invited  to  take  a 
hand.  I  only  remember  that  these  evenings  were 
pleasant.  We  laughed  and  played,  and  said  things 
not  worth  repeating.  Ideas  would  have  been  a 
nuisance  here.  Books  would  not  be  written  if  all 
the  world  were  happy,  well  and  sane,  but  it  was 
only  now  and  then  that  I  could  drop  in  there. 

One  day  there  came  a  charming  little  woman, 
with  a  good,  plump  figure,  real  blonde  hair,  and 
a  countenance  ingenuous  and  demure.  She  brought 

[95] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^fi^W^ 


a  letter  of  introduction  from  Theodore  Thomas, 
an  old  friend  of  our  landlady.  She  had  for  a 
number  of  years  sung  acceptably  with  the  orches- 
tras, but  had  not  become  famous.  She  believed 
that  her  successful  obscurity  was  due  to  the  fact 
that  she  would  not  go  upon  the  stage.  I  accom- 
panied her  to  church  one  morning  to  hear  her  sing. 
Her  voice  was  clear  and  sweet,  and  of  just  suf- 
ficient volume  for  a  church.  Seen  in  the  dim 
organ  loft,  through  eyes  affected  by  her  melody, 
she  seemed  a  vision  of  earth  and  heaven,  sug- 
gesting not  so  much  the  angelic  woman,  as  the 
womanly  angel  who,  when  the  song  is  over,  will 
need  protection  from  the  rain  outside. 

On  the  way  home  almost  every  sentence  was  a 
reference  to  the  career  she  had  let  pass  by.  There 
was  no  hint  of  dissatisfaction.  Far  from  it ;  nor 
did  she  boast  vaingloriously.  She  was  serenely 
conscious  of  her  own  respectable  estate,  taking 
without  apology  as  a  thing  of  course  the 
expressions  of  approval  that  complacence  feeds 
upon. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "we  both  know  that 
stage  life  is  not  necessarily  immoral.  No  one 
who  knows  anything  believes  that  nowadays ;  but, 

[96] 


INTIiMATE  STRANGERS 


"iUMi 


still,  I  never  could  quite  get  my  own  consent.  Do 
you  think  that  so  fooHsh?    No?" 

She  talked  a  good  deal  about  her  husband,  in- 
sisting upon  their  fondness  for  each  other,  as  if 
I  had  persisted  in  thinking  it  was  the  most  amaz- 
ing thing,  conchiding  each  assurance  with  some- 
thing he  had  said  in  praise  of  her  refusal  to  go  on 
the  stage. 

She  asked  me  to  her  room,  and  as  I  was  about 
to  close  the  door  behind  me,  said  sweetly : 

"You  had  better  leave  it  open  just  a  little,  don't 
you  think?" 

The  Bigelows  occupied  the  entire  second  floor. 
They  paid  sixty  dollars  a  week  for  their  accom- 
modations and  their  board.  The  ladies  dressed 
with  expensive  taste,  hired  a  carriage  when  they 
wished,  visited  the  art  rooms  on  Fifth  avenue, 
buying  what  they  fancied,  and  their  discrimina- 
tion cost  them  dear.  We  saw  very  little  of  Mr. 
Bigelow.  He  was  too  busy  winning  the  money 
for  these  things.  I  say  winning,  for  with  the 
standard  of  wages  at  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day 
no  one  can  be  said  to  earn  so  much.  The  standard 
must  be  raised  considerably  before  such  an  equa- 
tion can  be  true. 

[97] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


I 


Miss  Nettie  was  a  pure  delight — impulsive  and 
merry,  frank,  affectionate;  but  through  it  all  a 
persistent,  old-fashioned  habit  of  reflection.  She 
possessed  the  form  of  a  girl,  the  impulses  of  a 
child,  the  mind  of  a  woman.  Her  sentimental 
nature  was  a  blend  of  these. 

They  sometimes  took  me  with  them  to  the  art 
stores,  and  her  unaffected  knowledge  and  percep- 
tion of  this  world — almost  closed  to  me — were 
given  freely,  and  to  my  understanding  there  came 
great,  new  things,  and  to  my  ears  her  pleasant 
voice.  As  she  discoursed  quietly  a  touch  of  color, 
a  fine  effect,  a  novel  idea  seen  suddenly,  might 
prompt  her  to  seize  my  hand  and  press  it.  I  would 
say  this  was  done  unconsciously,  except  for  this — 
never  at  these  times  was  her  mother  looking.  And 
yet  this  may  have  been  due  to  instinct,  the  pre- 
caution and  the  impulse  alike  unconscious. 

One  morning  as  I  was  walking  toward  Broad- 
way I  heard  some  one  behind  me  calling. 

"What  do  you  think,"  she  exclaimed,  her  face 
beaming,  "mamma  is  not  feeling  very  well,  and 
I  am  out  alone !" 

"Come  with  me." 

"Where?" 

[98] 


I 


INTIMATE  STRANGERS 


^R^w 


"Across  the  ferry  at  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
fifth  street  and  along  the  road  by  the  river.  We 
can  have  dinner  at  an  inn  I  know.  We  can 
have  a  fine  day  in  the  open,  watch  the  sunset 
from  the  PaHsades,  see  the  lights  of  the  city 
appear." 

"A  fairyland!" 

She  looked,  not  at  Broadway,  but  far  up  it 
wistfully,  and  then : 

"I  can't." 

"Why?" 

She  gave  one  of  the  usual  reasons,  but  I  have 
forgotten  which. 

It  was  some  time  after  this  that  her  mother 
changed  places  with  her  at  their  table.  That  even- 
ing I  was  invited  to  their  rooms  for  a  little  music 
and  parchesi.  Miss  Nettie  slipped  a  note  into 
my  hand,  and  in  my  room  I  read: 

"Don't  think  it  is  my  fault.  My  mother  says 
I  must  not  look  at  you  so  much.  That  makes 
me  feel  uncomfortable.  I  can't  help  it,  so  if  I 
grow  suddenly  cross-eyed  when  you  chance  on  my 
unthinking  gaze,  remember  I  am  not  to  blame.  I 
wish  I  were  a  boy  and  could  run.  away. 

[99] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"Come  here  only  when  she  asks  you.  It  makes 
me  creep  to  write  that. 

"Why  don't  you  become  famous  or  something? 
Then  she  would  not  care.  This  is  all  so  unneces- 
sary, so  hideous,  absurd.  I  have  forgotten  just 
what  century  we  live  in,  and  so  no  date  to  this. 

"Until  we  meet,  and  then  look  down." 

Some  two  weeks  later  the  Bigelows  sailed  for 
Europe,  and  four  other  strangers  filled  the  places 
they  had  left. 

It  is  an  easy  thing  to  make  one's  living  ini  the 
world.  We  are  mistaken  when  we  think  our 
anxieties  or  our  unhappiness  spring  from  the  dif- 
ficulties of  securing  our  material  needs.  We  need 
affection,  and  that  is  difficult  to  give  or  take. 
There  are  so  many  petty  considerations,  so  many 
misleading  desires  in  the  way. 

A  man  may  put  himself  in  order,  give  himself 
a  good  government,  and  so,  taking  his  kingdom 
with  him,  move  freely  in  the  world,  received,  but 
not  subjugated  by  the  authorities  outside.  We 
may  flout  the  laws  with  sound  principles,  and  so 
be  free,  but  if  in  our  liberty  we  move  alone  the 
best  we  can  receive  is  tranquillity  and  a  hungry 


INTIMATE  STRANGERS 


heart.  No  philosophy  can  last  that  would  ease 
men  of  their  need  of  men.  We  may  learn  to  move 
in  this  world  of  strangers  with  serene,  perceiving 
eyes,  but  delight  comes  only  through  affection. 
I  can  pass  by  this  door  complacently,  but  I  would 
rather  be  welcomed  in.     So  much  for  philosophy. 

And  equity  is  this :  Cast  off  the  laws  that  hem 
us  in,  turn  from  vain  desires,  obey  the  laws  that 
give  us  liberty  and  run  with  the  desires  that  spring 
from  affection  and  good-will. 

Some  of  this  I  proved  alone — the  rest  with 
Nancy. 

A  summer  and  a  winter  passed,  during  which 
I  made  three  times  what  it  cost  to  live,  by  con- 
sidering the  lilies  and  the  ways  of  the  ant.  There 
is  no  denying  that  I  was  often  lonely.  There 
were  long  walks  with  my  friend,  searching 
through  the  city  for  significant  things,  and 
evenings  together,  when  we  discussed  what  we 
had  seen  and  what  we  hoped  tO'  do.  But  one  such 
friendship  cannot  suffice  a  man.  And  our  rela- 
tionship was  a  thing  of  speculation  and  endeavor 
— an  inspiration  to  brooding  and  to  activity;  but 
there  was  no  peace  in  it,  no  sense  of  happy  fulfil- 
ment, of  a  final  home. 

[  lOI  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


*^^ 


I  could  move  serenely  among  these  millions  of 
people,  for  I  did  not  envy  them  their  possessions 
and  I  could  escape  their  fetters ;  but  I  have  walked 
the  streets  all  night,  listening  wistfully  to  a  multi- 
tude of  voices,  unable  to  sleep  for  the  haunting 
echoes  in  my  heart. 

During  these  months,  also,  life  appeared  in 
some  appalling  aspects.  As  my  own  liberty  in- 
creased the  seemingly  hopeless  entanglement  of 
others  became  more  apparent,  amazing  and  ter- 
rible in  its  senseless  reality.  I  used  up  my  surplus 
while  pursuing  these  tragic  phases,  hoping  to 
throw  some  light  into  sombre  places.  It  is  singu- 
lar that  these  tragedies  should  have  become  more 
vivid  and  more  insistent  as  I  escaped  from  their 
power  to  involve  myself,  but  it  is  true. 

With  a  few  dollars  in  my  pocket  I  wanted  noth- 
ing except  more  and  dearer  friends ;  and  because 
of  this  the  haggard  broker,  the  slouching  beggar, 
the  lady  weary  of  her  functions,  and  the  women 
whO'  sold  papers  in  the  biting  wind,  startled  and 
confused  me,  and  would  not  let  me  be. 

But  through  all  this  ran  memories  of  those 
youthful  days  when  I  hunted  for  the  fairies  in  the 
neighboring  woods,  and  radiant  cities  beckoned 

[  102] 


INTIMATE  STRANGERS 


from  the  clouds.  These  memories  became  more 
insistent  as  the  spring  advanced,  accompanying 
me  even  through  those  vast,  ill-smelHng  regions 
that  line  the  East  River  on  both  sides.  Why  v^as 
this  squalor  permitted  to  pollute  my  city  ?  It  took 
me  a  long  time  to  learn  that  it  was  the  natural 
complement  of  Fifth  avenue  and  the  great  West 
End,  the  inevitable  reverse  of  a  gaudy  tapestry, 
one  side  of  which  only  is  for  show. 

This  was  not  the  city  of  my  visions.  We  must 
create  what  we  are  seeking.  For  this  end  is  youth 
allured  by  dreams.  But  how  could  I,  an  obscure 
atom  among  the  millions,  in  any  way  fashion  this 
unwieldy  mass? 

For  months  I  vibrated  between  the  Waldorf 
and  the  Mills  Hotel,  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  and  the  music  halls,  Mr.  Rockefeller's  Bible 
class  and  Tim  Sullivan's  saloon.  Ocean  Grove  and 
Coney  Island. 

What  bewildering,  pathetic  sights! 

On  a  morning,  at  the  beginning  of  another  sum- 
mer, I  watched  the  policemen  chasing  children 
and  adventurous  couples  over  Central  Park,  and 
observed  the  brilliant  company  of  people  in  car- 
riages driving  through,  inspecting  with  complac- 

[  103  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


■frtfirirr^nM 


ent  pleasure  the  beauties  their  guardians  pre- 
served for  them.  Leaving  the  park  about  noon, 
I  wandered  to  the  foot  of  Twenty-sixth  street, 
where  the  city  makes  a  disposal  of  its  odds  and 
ends. 

The  usual  line  of  wretches  was  passing  by 
the  superintendent's  desk.  A  little,  withered  old 
woman,  eighty  years  at  the  least,  thin,  bright-eyed 
and  able,  bobbed  her  head  at  the  superintendent 
in  a  sprightly  manner,  and  then,  with  a  glance 
of  almost  animal  fright,  asked  abruptly: 

"I  can  get  back  on  the  Island,  can't  I,  pretty 
soon?" 

"You  have  been  there  before?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  come  and  go.  I  can't  endure  to  stay 
there  all  the  time." 

She  ran  her  thin  hand  along  the  rail,  drew  her 
lips  in  between  the  gums,  and  looked  dreamily 
through  the  window  across  the  water,  intoning, 
as  if  to  herself,  "But  I  am  getting  on  in  years." 

"Do  you  want  to  go  over  now  ?" 

"Not  yet — not  for  a  month  or  so;  but  I  wanted 
to  be  sure  I  could." 

"All  right ;  come  back  when  you  want  to." 

"Will  you  know  me  again?" 

[  104  ] 


INTIMATE  STRANGERS 


He  smiled  and  nodded.  "Oh,  yes,  I'll  know 
you." 

Her  place  was  taken  by  a  young  Irishwoman 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  Her  eyes  were  snapping 
with  venom. 

"They  turned  me  out  with  my  sick  baby 
the  day  after  you  sent  me  there!"  she  cried 
angrily. 

"What  was  that  for?" 

"They  wanted  me  to  give  the  baby  medicine 
every  half  hour  during  the  night  and  break  me 
of  my  sleep." 

"You  don't  say !"  exclaimed  the  superintendent. 
"Do  you  know,  my  young  woman,  that  I  have 
sat  up  all  night  to  give  my  children  medicine  more 
than  once?  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  for 
you  now?" 

"What  can  you  do?  I  won't  go  back  there 
again." 

"I  can  do  nothing  for  you  if  you  will  do  noth- 
ing for  yourself.     You  are  able  to." 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"You  can  go  and  sit  down  until  I  can  think 
of  you  calmly." 

She  walked  away,  and  the  stalwart  young  oflfi- 

[  105  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


cer  who  stands  outside  the  rail  went  over  to  her. 
In  a  Httle  while  he  brought  her  back. 

>  "I  have  been  talking  to  her,"  he  said,  "and  she 
wants  to  know  if  you  can  put  the  baby  in  a  nur- 
sery somewhere,  if  she  will  pay  five  dollars  a 
month.  She  can  get  work  if  she  don't  have  the 
baby." 

"I  hate  to  let  him  go,"  cried  the  woman  pas- 
sionately. In  a  moment  she  was  leaning  against 
the  rail  hugging  the  baby  to  her  face  and  sobbing. 
The  superintendent  got  up  hastily  and  stepped  to 
her,  his  eyes  and  mouth  wide  open  in  surprise 
and  pity.  He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and 
said  gently : 

"That  is  the  best  thing  to  do,  my  dear.  You 
can't  get  along  with  the  nurses,  but  your  baby 
will  be  in  good  hands.  You  can  pay  half  for  its 
care,  and  when  it  is  well  and  you  have  a  place 
for  it  you  can  take  it  again." 

The  matter  was  so  arranged,  and  the  young 
mother  went  away  subdued  and  sorrowful. 

I  was  told  that  there  were  thirty-seven  thou- 
sand such  children,  wards  of  the  city,  and  that 
it  cost  nearly  two  million  dollars  a  year  to  care 
for  them. 

[io6] 


o 

•-t 

o 

cn 

n 


o 


a. 


j 

1  '^    ^■ 

H 1 

'i 

r 


INTIMATE  STRANGERS 


f  rffiriFTiTB 


I  crossed  to  Blackwell's  Island  on  the  ferry, 
and  found  a  familiar  seat  on  a  bench,  surrounded 
by  the  grim  old  buildings.  Up  and  down  the  walk 
limped  a  wreck  of  a  man,  his  hands  behind  his 
back. 

I  wondered  what  the  young  Mr.  Rockefeller 
would  say  to  him,  and  what  Christ  would  say  to 
the  young  Mr.  Rockefeller.  Would  it  still  be 
simply:  "Go,  sell  and  give,"  or  have  we  really 
taught  Him  something  since  those  days?  Have 
so  many  rich  men  passed  to  Heaven  that  the  way 
has  grown  easy,  and  the  needle's  eye  is  now  as 
big  as  a  church  door  ? 

I  dislike  these  sinister  questions,  but  there  is 
such  a  startling  contrast  between  the  slender,  well- 
groomed  millionaire,  the  lay  priest  dwelling  in 
exclusive  elegance,  and  his  penniless  Master,  foot- 
sore and  homeless.  Should  Christ  have  set  a  bet- 
ter example  for  the  rich,  or  has  His  attitude  to^ 
ward  them  changed  ?  Are  we  mistaken  concern- 
ing Standard  Oil,  and  is  this  heir  to  it  the  true 
disciple  of  this  day  of  trusts?  Then  may  we  all 
have  fathers  like  to  his,  that  we  may  be  benevolent 
on  a  per  cent,  of  our  inheritance  and  famous  by 
uttering  old  sayings  from  our  pews. 

[  109] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


I  left  the  island  hastily  to  escape  such  thoughts, 
and  going  to  my  room,  began  the  writing  of  a 
fairy  tale,  for  the  pleasure  the  whimsical  ways 
and  cheery  faces  of  the  little  people  are  to  me. 

In  the  morning  I  took  the  manuscript  to  have  it 
typewritten,  and  so  found  Nancy. 


[no] 


I 


^ftw 


CHAPTER    VII. 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES. 


ANCY'S  copying  office  was  on 
the  thirteenth  floor  of  one  of 
the  great  office  buildings  on 
lower  Broadway.  There  were 
two  rooms,  with  windows 
looking  over  a  wide  stretch  of 
the  world  below. 

As  I  entered  Nancy  was  busy  with  a  customer. 
As  she  stood  before  him,  looking  up  talking,  she 
sometimes  raised  upon  her  tiptoes,  and  then  her 
head  came  almost  to  his  chin.  She  was  a  very 
small  body,  but,  for  all  that,  the  place  seemed 
filled  with  her.  She  gave  me  a  quick  glance,  her 
blue  eyes  sparkling  with  enterprise,  smiled  as  if 
she  had  known  me  always,  and  asked  me  to  be 
seated.    "J^^t  a  moment,  please." 

[Ill] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


irtfirirrrra 


The  first  impression  of  these  rooms  was  of  their 
cheery  atmosphere,  and  this  impression  has  re- 
mained. There  were  four  very  contented-look- 
ing girls  in  the  inner  office.  I  never  heard  a 
brisker  or  more  continuous  sound  of  operation, 
but  I  noticed  that  from  time  to  time  these  girls 
at  their  typewriters  cast  pleasant  glances  through 
a  row  of  windows.  They  could  see  a  narrow  strip 
of  the  city,  more  than  a  mile  of  the  broad  North 
River,  and  the  cities  and  hills  of  New  Jersey.  They 
could  note  the  ocean  steamers  as  they  left  and 
entered  their  slips,  the  barges,  sailing  vessels,  tugs 
and  yachts,  and  the  ferryboats  criss-crossing  like 
magnetic  toys. 

"Come,"  the  man  was  saying,  "I  must  have  it 
in  the  morning." 

"Well,"  answered  Nancy,  "we  can  do  it  for 
you  in  time,  but  it  will  mean  late  hours." 

"All  right.    Now,  what  will  it  cost?" 

"The  regular  rate  is  fifteen  cents  a  page  for  the 
typewriting,  and  ten  dollars  a  thousand  for  the 
mimeographing.  That  will  be  sixteen."  She 
looked  sweetly  up  at  him,  and  added,  in  a  soft, 
persuasive  voice,  "Ten  dollars  extra  for  the  late 
hours.     That  will  make  it  twenty-six  in  all." 

[  112  J 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


"Whew!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  pretty  steep, 
isn't  it  ?" 

"Oh,  but,"  she  said,  still  holding  his  eyes  with 
her  own,  "just  think  how  badly  you  need  it.  It 
would  be  a  pleasure  to  work  for  you  all  night  for 
nothing,  but  we  won't  insist  upon  it.  You  would 
rather  pay  us,  I  know." 

He  looked  into  her  smiling  face,  so  pleasant, 
shrewd  and  girlish,  and  laughed  gleefully. 

"Well,  I  should  say  I  would!"  he  exclaimed, 
and  left  the  order. 

"And  now?"  she  asked,  coming  over  to  me. 

"I  would  like  to  dictate  something." 

"Letters?" 

"No;  a  fairy  tale."    She  laughed  merrily. 

"Do  you  know  our  prices?" 

"No." 

"A  dollar  an  hour." 

"It  won't  take  long,"  I  said,  "for  it  is  written. 
I  will  dictate  from  the  manuscript  and  you  may 
take  it  on  your  machine." 

"Well,  now,  if  you  don't  mind  interruptions 
I  will  take  it  myself.  Of  course,"  she  added, 
smiling,  "I  won't  charge  you  for  the  inter- 
ruptions." 

[113] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Rw^ 


She  brought  a  table  and  typewriter,  and  sat 
briskly  down  beside  me.  She  adjusted  the  paper, 
looked  at  me,  smiled  and  waited,  her  capable  little 
hands  hovering  over  the  keys. 

We  were  in  the  reception  room,  and  I,  seated 
before  her  desk,  could  see  over  the  lower  buildings 
the  spires  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  faint  and 
blue,  and  fainter  yet,  Grant's  Tomb.  The  sun 
shone  over  the  spreading  mass  of  clean  buildings, 
flashed  from  exposed  window  panes,  and  tinted 
the  clouds  of  white  steam  rising  from  the  roofs. 

Viewed  from  this  window,  the  city  was  alto- 
gether a  fair  and  shining  thing.  Only  a  far-off, 
pleasant  murmur  rose  from  below.  The  person- 
ality of  individuals  was  lost,  and  only  that  of  the 
city  remained — a  personality  prosperous,  hopeful, 
luxurious,  ambitious,  vast  in  its  serene,  progress- 
ive contentment  and  egotism. 

I  began  the  story.  "When  Old  Peter  the  Rich 
gave  up  his  business  and  his  mansion  in  the  vil- 
lage and  went  to  live  in  the  forest  with  his  daugh- 
ter Susette,  he  turned  over  all  his  possessions  to 
his  brother  Abner,  on  condition  that  he  should 
provide  for  his  grandson,  little  Peter  Forester, 
when  the  time  came.     It  was  with  a  last  thought 

[114] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


for  this  little  likeness  of  all  that  was  good  in  his 
own  youth,  and  a  prayer  for  his  blessing,  that  Old 
Peter  died.  His  death  brought  a  great  change  to 
little  Peter.  He  had  known  no  other  playfellow 
except  the  fairies,  and  it  had  been  only  through 
his  grandfather  that  he  had  known  them.  After 
his  death  he  suddenly  realized  that  he  had  never 
really  seen  the  little  people,  unless,  indeed,  it  had 
been  in  his  babyhood.  He  half-remembered  their 
figures  perched  upon  his  cradle,  and  could  some- 
times hear  a  faint  echo  of  their  merry  voices.  As 
soon  as  Peter  was  big  enough  his  father  would 
sometimes  take  him  for  a  day's  patrol  of  the  for- 
est. These  were  times  of  mingled  pleasure  and 
disappointment.  When  they  started  in  the  early 
morning  the  boy's  heart  was  full  of  excitement. 
The  squirrels  cocked  knowing  eyes  at  him;  a 
sparrow,  evidently  on  the  watch,  darted  eagerly 
ahead.  Woodpeckers  sent  flying  signals  through 
the  forest  and  thrushes,  finches  and  bluebirds  flitted 
about  him  as  if  impatient  at  his  slow  approach. 

"  'Come,  father,'  he  would  cry  in  his  delight, 
'let  us  hurry,  for  the  fairies  will  appear  to-day.' 

"Before  the  day  was  over  he  lagged  behind, 
troubled  because  he  could  see  and  hear  so  little, 

["5] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


and  then  his  father,  taking  his  hand,  would  say, 
'You  are  tired,  little  man.' 

"In  the  evening  he  sat  silently  on  the  doorsill, 
looking  wistfully  into  the  forest,  listening  for 
those  little  familiar  ones  whom  he  was  not  sure 
he  had  ever  seen." 

Nancy  was  called  away  by  a  customer,  who  had 
closed  the  door  behind  him  briskly.  He  had 
brought  an  order  for  one  hundred  mimeograph 
letters,  but  she,  from  her  tiptoes,  told  him  that 
while  one  hundred  might  be  enough  for  him,  it 
would  be  more  profitable  for  her  if  he  should  order 
five  hundred  or  a  thousand.  He  ventured  to  dis- 
cuss the  matter,  and  she  got  the  extra  order.  She 
returned  to  me,  smiling  sweetly  in  apology. 

"When  Peter  was  fifteen  years  old  his  Uncle 
Abner  took  him  to  the  village  to  live.  He  did  not 
do  this  with  any  pleasure,  but  if  Peter  were  to 
have  a  share  in  the  fortune  he  must  help  to  in- 
crease it.  As  Peter  went  with  him,  all  the  way 
from  the  cottage  to  the  town  his  heart,  looking 
both  ways  at  once,  viewed  his  home  with  tender 
regret  and  the  town  with  eager  anticipations.  His 
room  in  the  great  house  looked  into  the  garden 
of  a  neighbor,  and  he  saw,  in  place  of  the  forest, 

[ii6] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


^^^fn^ 


a  prim  little  lawn,  a  few  orderly  flower-beds  and 
a  contented-looking  cottage  covered  with  vines. 
He  sighed  as  he  stood  by  his  window  on  the  first 
night.  The  few  trees  in  the  garden  seemed  to 
speak  another  language  than  those  of  the  forest. 
There  was  something  fretful  in  the  piping  of  a 
few  lonely  crickets.  Here  in  the  midst  of  the 
town,  when  for  the  first  time  he  was  to  dwell  with 
hundreds  of  his  kind,  this  little  creature  of  the 
companionable  woods  felt  utterly  alone.  He  awak- 
ened early  the  next  morning,  and  thought  at  first 
it  was  because  of  the  birds  that  usually  aroused 
him.  By  a  window  opposite  his  own  stood  a  little 
girl,  singing  gaily  as  she  fastened  a  pink  bow  in 
her  hair." 

We  were  again  interrupted  by  a  customer  with 
an  order  to  be  filled  at  once. 

"We  cannot  possibly  do  it  until  to-morrow," 
said  Nancy,  taking  his  manuscript  from  him,  how- 
ever, and  folding  it  to  her  breast. 

"Oh,  but  you  must." 

"You  wanted  this  yesterday?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  assented  eagerly,  thinking  he  had 
made  his  point.  "I  should  have  attended  to  it 
yesterday." 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"Surely,"  she  said,  "you  can't  expect  me  to  do 
more  than  you  have  done." 

It  was  her  soft  voice,  the  pleasant  accent  on  the 
"me"  and  "you,"  the  irresistible  allurement  of  her 
ingenuous  eyes  that  convinced  him,  and  he  agreed 
to  wait. 

She  returned  to  me  with  what  I  thought 
was  a  genuine  eagerness,  and  I  continued  the 
tale. 

"Peter  went  down  to  his  uncle  with  a  light 
heart,  which  even  the  unfriendly  silence  of  the 
breakfast  table  could  not  reach.  'Peter,'  said  his 
uncle  sharply  as  they  were  leaving  the  house,  *I 
hope  you  intend  to  be  useful  at  once.'  He  slammed 
the  great  iron  gate  behind  them  and  looked  sternly 
down.  'I  can't  have  any  idlers  about  me.  What 
do  you  know  ?'  Peter  would  have  been  distressed 
by  this  had  he  heard  it,  but  he  was  at  that  mo- 
ment looking  toward  the  window  opposite  his 
own.  'Why  don't  you  listen  to  me?'  asked  the 
old  man,  giving  a  twist  to  his  arm.  'You  hurt 
me,'  said  Peter.  His  uncle  relaxed  his  grip  and 
walked  on  in  silence.  Presently  he  said,  in  what 
he  intended  for  a  kindly  manner :  'I  have  no  doubt 
that  you  will  soon  be  useful.    The  great  thing'  in 

[ii8] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


%r,M»*r!tt:t'i!r  u 


life  is  to  be  able  to  cajole  or  force  others  to  do  of 
their  own  free  will  the  things  that  are  profitable 
for  you. 

"  *I  now  possess  land  and  dwellings  once  held 
dearer  than  life  by  their  owners,  but  mark  you, 
Peter,  these  good  people  were  glad  to  give  them 
over,  and  escape  with  their  hides  before  I  was 
through  with  them.  Some  of  them  I  have  been 
able  to  employ  to  my  profit,  thereby  securing  not 
only  their  property,  but  their  services  and  grati- 
tude as  well.  To  some  I  have  leased  their  fonner 
possessions,  for  they  were  willing  to  pay  more  than 
others;  so  you  see  that  even  the  tenderest  senti- 
ments have  their  uses.  In  dealing  with  men,  one 
must  not  ignore  their  virtues.' 

"As  they  reached  the  center  of  the  square  he 
pointed  to  the  town  pump,  about  which  was  gath- 
ered a  merry  group  with  buckets. 

"  'I  will  give  you  at  once,'  said  Abner,  look- 
ing from  the  pump  to  Peter  and  from  Peter  to  the 
pump,  'an  opportunity  to  be  useful.  The  town 
pump  is  a  great  public  evil.  It  encourages  people 
in  idleness  and  gossiping,  and  teaches  them  the 
bad  habit  of  getting  something  for  nothing.  It 
needs  only  a  little  wit  to  induce  them  to  tear  it 

[119J 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^^Xw^ 


clown  and  close  up  the  well.  If  they  dig  wells  of 
their  own  they  must  come  to  us  for  the  tools,  and 
it  may  be  that  a  larger  quantity  of  our  wines  will 
be  used.  So  you  see  you  already  have  something 
to  think  of  at  spare  times/ 

"As  Peter  listened  with  his  mouth  open,  the 
laughter  and  chatter  of  the  people  as  they  filled 
each  other's  buckets  lost  its  merriment. 

"It  was  a  tragic  day  for  Peter,  but  that  night 
as  he  stood  again  by  his  window,  the  moonlight 
falling  over  the  neighboring  cottage  finally  illum- 
inated his  own  heart  as  if  with  a  reflected  and 
softened  radiance.  In  the  morning  he  was  awak- 
ened by  the  song  of  the  girl.  He  hurried  to  his 
window,  and  saw  to  his  delight  that  she  was  look- 
ing in  his  direction,  as  if  expecting  him.  She 
smiled  when  he  appeared,  and  then,  as  if  her 
mission  were  performed,  flitted  away  like  the  birds 
of  his  forest  when  they  had  called  to  him." 

Again  the  door  opened.  This  time  Nancy 
looked  up  with  vacant  eyes,  and  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  far  away  asked  one  of  her  girls  to  at- 
tend to  customers  when  they  came  in.  She  drew 
a  screen  about  us.  She  lifted  the  carriage  of  her 
machine  and  read,  "Like  the  birds  of  his  forest 

[  120] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


^litttt 


when  they  had  called  to  him."  "Go  on,"  she  said. 
The  lines  sounded  beautiful  as  she  read  them. 
Perhaps  it  was  her  voice  and  eyes.  And  then,  in 
our  little  enclosure,  the  rest  of  the  story  seemed 
real  to  us. 

"Peter  greeted  his  uncle  cheerfully  at  break- 
fast, because  he  was  not  thinking  of  him,  and 
Abner  was  also  agreeable,  because  he  already  saw 
in  his  nephew  a  promising  youth. 

"That  day  Peter  was  put  upon  a  high  stool 
and  a  pile  of  great  books  placed  before  him. 

"  'You  must  first  learn  everything  in  these  by 
heart,'  said  his  uncle,  'for  many  difficult  things 
can  easily  be  managed  if  a  man  knows  how  others 
have  succeeded  or  failed,  if  he  can  construe  the 
laws  for  himself  and  figure  nimbly.' 

"Peter's  instructor  was  a  little,  withered  old 
man  named  Jacob.  He  was  one  of  those  who  had 
seen  his  house  and  garden  mysteriously  pass  into 
the  hands  of  Abner  Rich,  and  who  now  gratefully 
served  him  for  permission  to  still  cultivate  his 
flower  and  vegetable  beds. 

"He  had  but  one  cause  for  anxiety.  All  his 
life  he  had  met  with  delights.  Every  morning  as 
he  worked  in  his  garden  his  most  familiar  friends, 

[121] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


vrttirirr'T-a 


such  as  the  beet  or  the  four-o'clock,  the  lady-bug 
or  the  gooseberry  bush,  the  plum  or  apple  tree,  ad- 
mitted him  to  a  still  closer  intimacy. 

"Jacob  found  that  in  spite  of  every  effort  to 
banish  them  they  would  follow  him  in  swarms  to 
his  work.  More  than  once  Abner  had  discovered 
him  gazing  dreamily  away  from  his  account 
books. 

"  'Come,  Jacob,'  he  would  say,  'perhaps  you 
have  worked  enough  in  your  lifetime.  If  you 
don't  wish  to  keep  the  place  where  you  live  any 
longer  I  can  rent  it.' 

"At  this  every  thought  of  delight  was  swept 
away  in  a  panic,  and  Jacob  would  pounce  upon  his 
books  like  a  ravenous  bird, 

"All  the  time  that  he  was  teaching  Peter 
to  read,  and  whenever  a  book  was  before 
him,  he  felt  the  most  perfect  content.  For 
what  word  is  there,  what  sentence  however 
dry  or  evil,  but  reveals  a  world  of  beauty  to  such 
as  he? 

"One  day  he  said  to  Peter,  'Last  night  the  fair- 
ies brought  the  pollen  to  my  poppies.' 

"  'Did  you  see  them  ?'  cried  Peter,  almost  jump- 
ing from  his  stool. 

[  122  ] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


"  'Oh,  no,'  said  Jacob.  They  just  brought  the 
pollen  and  sHpped  away.' 

"But  the  time  came  when  Jacob  and  Peter  could 
no  longer  read  together. 

"  'It  is  time,'  said  Abner,  'that  you  should  use 
what  you  know.' 

"After  this  Peter  saw  nothing  all  day  but  long 
columns  of  figures.  He  sat  perched  upon  his  stool 
hour  after  hour,  the  great  ledgers  spread  before 
him.  Pie  looked  at  the  figures  until  they  danced. 
It  became  necessary,  after  awhile,  to  pin  each  one 
with  his  pen  to  hold  it  in  place. 

"He  could  not  do  it.  Before  a  month  had  passed 
he  no  longer  tried,  but  sat  with  his  hot  face  buried 
in  his  hands,  his  thoughts  sometimes  busy  with 
his  haunts  in  the  forest,  sometimes  lost  in  smiling 
contemplation  of  the  little  girl  at  her  window. 
He  had  never  spoken  with  her,  although  he  knew 
there  had  been  times  when  he  might  have  done  so. 
Once  she  called  him  by  a  song  from  the  garden. 
She  was  standing  near  the  gate  between  the  two 
enclosures,  dressed  in  a  pretty  blue  and  white 
frock,  with  a  v/ide  blue  sash  and  blue  ribbons  in 
her  hair.  He  could  not  have  joined  her,  because 
his  uncle  was  already  at  breakfast.     He  did  not 

[  123  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


speak  to  her,  for  the  forest,  the  song  and  the 
smile  of  the  girl,  and  the  long  columns  of  figures 
were  confusing  his  thoughts.  There  were  tears 
in  his  eyes  when  he  entered  the  breakfast-room. 
He  dropped  listlessly  in  his  chair. 

"  'What's  the  matter  ?'  asked  his  uncle  sharply. 

"  *I  am  tired,'  said  the  boy. 

"Abner  cast  a  look  of  displeasure  upon  him,  but 
said  nothing. 

"That  day  he  came  suddenly  to  the  desk  where 
Peter  sat  and  found  him  bent  over  a  ledger  long 
out  of  use.  The  book  that  he  should  have  been 
working  on  was  discovered  where  it  had  been 
hastily  slipped  by  Jacob  under  a  pile  of  his  own. 

"Every  day  for  a  long  time  the  watchful  Jacob 
had  made  this  exchange,  unknown  to  Peter  or  to 
any  one,  and  so  the  shortcoming  of  the  boy  had 
gone  unnoticed. 

"Abner  discovered  all  this  at  a  glance,  for  the 
accounts  were  all  in  Jacob's  hand, 

"  'Go  back  to  the  fools  that  own  you,'  he 
shouted,  pushing  Peter  from  his  stool.  'I  want 
none  of  you  and  you  shall  have  none  of  mine.' 

"He  turned  toward  Jacob,  who  was  standing 
white  and  trembling  by  his  desk. 

[1^4] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


/t'fMirirri'RB 


"  *I  will  need  that  house  where  you  live.  Get 
your  old  woman  and  go — nothing-  else  there  be- 
longs to  you.' 

"Peter  took  the  old  man  by  the  hand  and  led 
him  home. 

"  'Where  will  you  go?'  said  he,  when  they 
had  reached  the  gate. 

"  'I  will  not  know  when  I  leave,'  said  Jacob, 
feebly.  'I  will  die  in  my  garden,'  he  added,  looking 
tenderly  toward  the  flowers,  the  vines  and  the  vege- 
tables. 'The  fairies  and  my  friends  will  protect  me.' 

"A  moment  more  and  he  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten the  calamity  that  threatened  him.  He 
stood  in  his  garden  like  one  listening  to  the  greet- 
ings of  a  troop  of  merry  children. 

"Peter  hurried  away.  He  was  anxious  now 
only  to  get  home  that  he  might  send  his  father 
to  help  old  Jacob.  His  heart  was  heavy  as  'ne 
looked  for  a  last  time  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
window  of  the  little  girl. 

"  'She  will  sing  there  in  the  morning  and  I 
will  not  see  her.' 

"That  night  Peter  slept  in  his  old  room  in  the 
forest  cottage.  He  was  awakened  by  a  clear, 
sweet  sound,  such  as  sometimes  visits  the  dreams 

[125] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


of  innocence.  He  sat  up  in  his  bed  and  listened, 
and  presently  from  far  away  he  heard  a  voice,  like 
the  echo  of  a  tiny  silver  bell,  calling  him  to  the 
forest.  There  was  a  path  of  light  from  his  bed 
to  the  window.  Dressing  hastily,  he  clambered 
to  the  ground  by  the  vines  that  covered  the  cot- 
tage, and  hurried  away  through  the  forest  in  the 
direction  of  the  moon.  In  all  directions  the  only 
sound  was  the  intermittent  movement  of  the  wind 
in  the  heavy  foliage — the  long,  faint  sighs  which 
gave  to  the  profound  darkness  an  added  ghostli- 
ness.  But  Peter  did  not  think  of  returning.  He 
knew^  that  he  had  reached  the  depths  of  the  forest 
and  that  the  great  trees  about  him  cast  no  evil 
shade.  He  knew  how  tenderly  their  giant  arms 
cradled  the  timid  birds  that  sought  their  shelter. 
He  knew  that  far  above  him  the  moonlight  rested 
on  their  heads  as  lovingly  as  on  the  safe  enclosure 
of  his  father's  house.  And  so,  though  the  most 
inquisitive  of  the  familiar  stars  could  find  no 
crevice  through  which  to  watch  him,  he  was  not 
afraid,  but  stood  quietly  w-aiting  and  listening  for 
the  voice  that  had  called  him  there.  He  was  not 
prepared,  however,  for  what  followed.  First,  a 
globe  of  light,  as  large  as  an  orange,  came  toward 

[126] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


him  and,  before  he  could  move,  it  broke  against 
his  cheek  Hke  a  soap  bubble,  filling-  the  air  with  an 
odor  of  locust  blooms.  Then  another  and  another 
came,  breaking  on  his  head  and  hands  and  shoul- 
ders until  he  was  wet  with  the  luminous  perfume, 
and  the  light  of  these  shattered  missiles  illumi- 
nated the  hollow  in  the  forest  where  he  stood.  He 
heard  the  chiming  sounds  of  revelry  and  caught 
the  flitting  colors  of  carnival  gowns  and  the  twink- 
ling of  busy  wings.  Then  the  sounds  ceased  and 
the  enquiring  gaze  of  such  a  bewildering  and  bril- 
liant multitude  would  have  been  impossible  to  bear 
had  not  a  fortunate  diversion  occurred.  Far  up 
the  hollow  stood  what  looked  at  that  distance  to 
be  a  phosphorescent  butter  ball.  It  was,  however, 
the  very  round  body  of  Chuck-Chucket,  the  jovial- 
souled  gourmand  of  the  fairies.  He  stood,  or 
rather  rested,  like  a  ripe  plum,  upon  the  top  of  a 
tree  stump,  where,  all  unconscious  of  the  sudden 
silence,  he  continued  his  lusty  song : 

"  'Oh,  Time  is  young  and  the  world  is  green, 

I  drink  to  more  capacity ; 
And  here's  to  the  health  of  the  rosy,  posy  Queen, 

And  here's  to  the  health  of  me.' 

[  127] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


irfvirirriira 


"A  short  arm  appeared  as  if  from  the  crease  in 
the  butter  ball  and  raised  a  gourd  of  moonshine 
from  a  large  hollow  in  the  stump.  There  was  a 
melodious  gurgle,  such  as  is  sometimes  heard 
when  a  wooden  pump  is  primed,  followed  by  the 
next  verse  of  the  song : 

"  'When  the  moon  is  full,  I'll  not  go  lean, 

(Here's  to  you,  old  distillery) 
And  here's  to  the  health  of  the  rosy,  posy  Queen, 

And  here's  to  the  health  of  me.' 

"  'Come,  Chuck-Chucket,'  said  the  Queen,  *I 
think  that  neither  your  health  nor  mine  will  need 
further  encouragement.' 

"A  very  bald  pate  and  two  astonished  eyes  ap- 
peared slowly  at  the  top  of  the  butter  ball,  like  the 
head  of  a  turtle  peeping  from  its  shell.  The  gourd 
was  dropped  into  the  hollow  of  the  stump,  and 
Chuck-Chucket,  rolling  himself  into  a  position  that 
would  permit  him  to  look  below,  fastened  his  in- 
quisitive eyes  upon  Peter. 

"  'Who's  this?'  he  asked,. and  instantly  a  chorus 
of  voices  cried,  'It's  Peter.' 

"  'Well,  well,'  said  Chuck-Chucket  genially,  'I 
say  it  would  be  only  decent  to  drink  to  this  Peter.' 

[128] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


"Then  all  the  countless  throng  of  little  creatures, 
hovering  in  the  air,  extended  their  hands  cup- 
shape,  like  the  most  exquisitely  tinted  shells,  and 
drank  of  the  nectar  of  the  moon. 

"Peter  fell  upon  his  knees  and  called  to  them  in 
passionate  whispers,  'Oh,  fairies,  fairies,  let  me  be 
one  of  you !' 

"The  little  hands  were  emptied  at  the  parted 
lips,  and  the  throng  settled  to  the  earth  like  a  con- 
tented sigh.  The  Queen  dropped  upon  Peter's 
shoulder,  and,  putting  her  hands  to  his  lips,  left 
upon  them  the  taste  of  the  moonlight. 

"  'Dear  Peter,'  she  said,  'you  are  as  much  one  of 
us  as  a  boy  can  be.' 

"She  made  herself  comfortable  on  his  shoulder, 
saying,  'Here  will  I  make  my  throne.' 

"This  did  not  sound  at  all  strange  to  him,  for 
the  words  of  the  fairies,  like  their  forms,  carry 
their  own  lights  with  them. 

"The  sound  of  the  murmuring  voices  revealed 
to  Peter  the  secret  of  the  mystery  of  the  night.  A 
sigh  of  wings  announced  the  arrival  or  departure 
of  groups  bound  for  the  succor  of  distressed  fire- 
flies that  had  been  beaten  to  the  ground  by  a  gust 
of  rain,  or  returning  frorrj  the  wheat  fields  after 

[  129] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


filling  the  heads  with  grain.  There  were  com- 
panies dressed  in  white  and  gold,  with  vests  of 
crimson,  carr^'ing  little  bags  of  pollen,  workmen 
of  the  field  and  highway.  There  were  songs  of 
fruit  and  odors  of  the  oil  of  nuts.  Here  and  there 
a  company  of  fairies  laid  aside  their  garments  for 
a  bath  in  the  dew. 

"At  the  summons  of  the  Queen,  a  rosy  maiden, 
still  shining  with  the  dew,  alighted  on  Peter's 
knee,  that  he  might  see  how  exquisite  is  the 
form  and  how  radiant  the  hues  of  purity  and 

joy. 

"There  was  a  sudden  rush  of  wings  and  a  band 
of  fairies  poured  from  an  opening  in  the  hillside, 
bearing  aloft  a  salver  heaped  with  pearls  as  large 
as  peas.  The  salver  was  borne  swiftly  three  times 
aroimd  the  grove,  while  all  the  multitude  shouted. 
It  was  borne  to  where  Peter  sat  with  the  Queen 
upon  his  shoulders.  Those  who  carried  the  salver 
alighted  on  his  knees,  holding  it  aloft  on  their 
hands.  Peter  saw  the  heap  of  pearls.  Their  beauty 
was  greater  than  the  eye  alone  could  perceive. 
Having  once  beheld  them,  they  became  a  posses- 
sion of  the  soul.  A  second  company  of  fairies 
brought  a  purse  and  held  it  open,  while  the  Queen 

[  130] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


dropped  the  pearls  into  it.  When  the  purse  was 
filled  she  handed  it  to  Peter,  saying : 

"  T  place  these  in  your  hands.  He  who  pos- 
sesses them  will  desire  nothing.  But  they  will  be 
yours  only  when  you  part  with  them.  Those  that 
remain  in  the  purse  will  be  to  you  only  as  pebbles. 
Bestow  or  spend  them  all,  dear  Peter,  or  they  will 
become  a  burden.' 

'The  purse  was  placed  in  his  hands,  and  Peter 
knew  that  he  held  enough  treasure  to  enrich  the 
world. 

"  'And  now,  let  me  go,'  said  he  eagerly,  'for 
early  in  the  morning,  I  would  give  one  to  Jacob, 
that  he  may  not  lose  his  house  and  garden;  and 
one  to  my  uncle,  that  he  may  not  strive  any  more 
for  the  possessions  of  others.  I  will  give  one  to 
my  mother,  so  that  she  will  no  longer  want  for 
everything  in  the  shops;  and  one  to  my  father, 
that  he  may  have  tlie  happiness  of  giving  it  to  her 
also.  I  will  give  one  to  th-e  little  girl  who  woke 
me  with  her  songs,  because — because — and  then 
there  are  all  the  others  in  the  town  to  supply,  so 
that  by  another  night  I  will  not  have  a  pearl  left.' 

"  'If  thirsty  at  night,'  called  a  mellow  voice, 
'remember  there  is  nothing  like  a  pull  of  moon- 

[131] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


shine.  By  day  you  need  not  go  thirsty,  for  every- 
thing conceals  a  spigot,  if  you  know  where  to  look 
for  it.' 

"Peter  looked  up,  and  saw  Chuck-Chucket 
ogling  him  kindly  from  the  tree  stump.  He  held  a 
bowl,  half  his  own  size,  between  his  outstretched 
legs,  and  a  dripping  ladle  in  his  hand,  containing 
some  exceedingly  luscious  little  balls  and  over- 
flowing with  a  savory  liquid. 

"  'If  you  are  ever  hungry  and  deserted,'  he  said, 
after  swallowing  the  contents  of  the  ladle,  'open 
your  mouth  and  I  will  drop  into  it,  wherever  you 
are,  a  large  number  of  fat  dew  dumplings,  swim- 
ming in  the  odor  of  cinnamon.' 

"He  waved  his  ladle  in  a  manner  expressive  of 
great  liberality  and  friendliness  and  dipped  it  deep 
into  the  bowl  again. 

"So  Peter  returned  the  next  morning  to  the 
town  with  more  wealth  in  his  possession  than 
could  be  recorded  in  all  his  uncle's  ledgers. 

"Those  who  have  looked  from  their  bower  of 
youth  upon  the  great  world  before  them,  and  felt 
the  joy  of  a  mission  of  love,  will  know  the  beauty 
of  that  morning  to  Peter  as  he  entered  the  town  to 
set  all  things  right  at  once." 

[  132] 


o 


en 

n 
(k;      r-. 

e« 

cr 

o 

S. 

5" 
at) 


1^ 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


^-Ww 


This  was  the  conclusion,  and  I  stopped. 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Nancy. 

"Yes." 

"And  what  became  of  Peter?" 

"I  wish  I  knew.  I  think  we  wonder  about  that 
more  and  more  as  we  grow  older.  We  all  seem 
to  lose  him  somewhere  between  six  and  seventeen. 
Some  cling  to  him  longer,  but  we  lose  him  in  the 
end.  This  is  a  fine  view  from  your  windows. 
The  men  who  own  these  buildings  and  those  who 
are  toiling  in  them  have  all  known  this  little  Peter, 
and  something  of  the  memory  remains.  These 
memories  constitute  the  soul  of  the  city,  invisible, 
working  as  the  fairies  and  the  angels  work, 
through  all  we  do.  New  York  is  the  fairest  of 
our  cities,  approaching  nearer  to  a  spectacle  of 
fairyland,  because  to  it  have  come  in  greater  num- 
ber those  to  whom  Peter  has  been  most  real.  The 
vast  enterprises  centered  here  have  required  imagi- 
nation, sentiment  and  the  stuff  of  dreams.  The 
souls  of  many  artists,  poets  and  musicians  have 
been  marooned  on  Wall  street." 

Nancy  gave  me  a  glance  of  pleased  surprise. 

"You  really  believe  that  ?" 

"I  do." 

[135] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"I  wish  I  could." 

"Why  don't  you?" 

"I  will." 

As  she  was  looking  over  the  manuscript  for  cor- 
rection, she  read  aloud  the  passages  that  pleased 
her  most. 

"And  what  became  of  the  little  girl  at  the  win- 
dow ?"  she  asked. 

"She  is  somewhere  putting  ribbons  in  her  hair, 
and  singing  still." 

She  smiled  and  looked  at  me  for  a  moment, 
when,  behold,  out  of  her  eyes,  peered  the 
little  girl,  as  if  coming  from  the  shadows  of  a 
room. 

"I  think,"  I  said  impulsively,  "that  I  see  her 


now." 


"I  had  almost  forgotten,"  she  said  softly,  "that 
she  was  there." 

"Don't  forget  her,"  I  said.  "She  is  worth  more 
than  the  clever  woman." 

Nancy  leaned  a  little  toward  me,  across  the  arm- 
rest of  the  desk. 

"There  is  a  prudence,"  says  Emerson,  "which 
asks  but  one  question  of  anything,  'Will  it  bake 
bread?'" 

[136] 


PETER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


She  opened  a  drawer  in  her  desk  and  took  out 
Mr.  Emerson. 

"  'The  Islander,'  she  read,  'may  ramble  all  day 
at  will.  At  night  he  may  sleep  on  a  mat,  under 
the  moon;  and  wherever  a  wild  date  tree  grows, 
nature  has,  without  a  prayer  even,  spread  a  table 
for  his  evening  meal.'  " 

She  looked  up  at  me  and  said :  "I  have  often 
longed  to  be  an  Islander,  haven't  you?" 

''Then  she  read :  'The  Northerner  is,  perforce, 
a  householder.  He  must  brew,  salt  and  preserve 
his  food.  He  must  pile  up  wood  and  coal.'  "  She 
looked  at  me. 

"How  much  of  what  you  make,"  I  asked,  "is 
spent  for  these  things  ?" 

She  laughed  and  turned  over  the  pages, 

"  'Why  are  health,  beauty  and  genius  the  ex- 
ception, now?'  she  read.  'We  have  violated  law 
upon  law  until  we  stand  amid  the  ruins.  *  *  * 
In  the  noon  and  afternoon  of  life  we  still  throb  at 
the  recollection  of  days  when  happiness  was  not 
happy  enough,  and  when  the  day  was  not  long 
enough,  but  the  night  must  be  consumed  in  keen 
recollections.  When  the  head  boiled  all  night  on 
the  pillow  with  the  generous  deed  it  resolved  on ; 

[  137] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^n^w 


when  the  moonlight  was  a  pleasant  fever;  when 
the  stars  were  letters,  and  the  flowers  ciphers,  and 
the  air  was  coined  into  song;  when  all  business 
seemed  an  impertinence  and  all  the  men  and 
women  running  to  and  fro  in  the  streets  mere 
pictures.'  " 

And  so  we  talked  and  read  and  talked  for 
hours,  until  the  great  clock  on  the  New  York  Life 
building  struck  five,  and  it  was  time  for  Nancy's 
girls  to  go. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  Sunday?"  I  asked. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  for  the  first  time,  and 
for  the  first  time  did  not  look  frankly  at  me. 

"I  have  an  engagement  to  go  sailing,"  she  said, 
and,  after  a  moment,  "what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  am  going  on  my  wheel  somewhere." 

"Do  you  care  where?" 

"No." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "if  you  will  be  at  the  head  of 
Bedford  avenue  at  nine  o'clock,  I  will  try  to  be 
there.     I  will  break  that  engagement  if  I  can." 

She  asked  one  of  the  girls  to  stay  with  her  to 
finish  the  orders  that  were  promised.  As  the 
others  were  leaving,  the  sounds  of  feminine  rust- 
ling, of  pleasant  voices  making  adieux,  reminded 

[138] 


PFTER  AND  THE  FAIRIES 


me  of  the  exit  from  a  tea  party.  When  they  were 
gone  Nancy  stood  before  me,  a  look  of  astute  de- 
termination in  her  eyes. 

"When  I'm  a  man — a  man,"  she  said,  "I  will 
do  as  I  have  a  mind  to,  if  I  can — and  I  can." 

"Then  you  will  be  there  Sunday?" 

"Yes." 

"What  are  you  gfoing  to  do  to-night  ?" 

"Work." 

"And  to-morrow?" 

She  looked  at  me  inquiringly. 

"Work."     And,  after  a  moment,  "I  suppose." 

"Let's  not  wait  until  Sunday." 

"That  would  be  foolish,"  she  said. 

"Where  shall  we  go?" 

"Anywhere  out  of  the  city." 

She  looked  from  her  window  toward  the  distant 
Palisades.  "We  might  go  there.  Do  you  know," 
she  added,  "I  pay  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
extra  rent  for  the  view  of  them,  and  yet  I  have 
never  been  there.    That's  true." 

"And  we  can  do  it  for  ten  cents." 

She  laughed  merrily,  and  then  said  briskly, 
"Well,  now,  I  must  get  to  work." 

But  I  did  not  go. 

[  139] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


She  made  a  cup  of  tea  and  boiled  some  eggs  on 
a  little  gas  stove  in  the  inner  room,  and  from  a 
closet  took  graJiam  bread,  fruit,  cream  and  nuts. 
The  girl  who  had  remained  to  help  seemed  to 
think  it  a  privilege. 

The  meal  was  served  and  eaten,  the  dishes 
washed  and  put  away.  The  hours  passed  like 
minutes. 

I  put  the  sheets  from  the  mimeograph  between 
the  blotters  as  Nancy,  with  her  sleeves  turned  up, 
swiftly  rolled  them  off. 

At  eight  o'clock  Miss  Brewster  left  us,  but  it 
was  past  midnight  when  the  work  was  done. 

Hand  in  hand,  we  walked  down  Broadway, 
stopped  to  watch  the  fountain  in  the  City  Hall 
Park,  playing  in  the  moonlight,  and  then  slowly 
to  the  bridge. 

"I  have  been  a  long  time  looking  for  you,"  I 
said. 

She  answered  quietly,  "And  I  for  you." 


[  140] 


-^gnmMH^^r 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


TRUANTS. 


NEVER  could  remember  just 
when  or  how  we  came  to 
Nancy's  home.  I  discovered 
later  that  it  was  in  the  interior 
of  Brooklyn,  about  four  miles 
from  the  bridge.  I  have  a  con- 
fused remembrance  of  gliding  and  teetering  in  a 
trolley  car  and  of  walking  through  a  deserted, 
dusky,  sleep-haunted  Brooklyn  street. 

I  was  conscious  only  of  Nancy,  and  that  I  held 
her  by  the  hand,  and  that  it  rested  in  mine  confi- 
dently. 

We  were  admitted  by  Elizabeth,  and  even  in  the 
twilight  of  the  hall  I  knew  that  I  had  found  an- 
other friend.     Nancy  reached  up  impulsively  and 
drew  her  down  and  kissed  her,  and  said : 
*'He  has  come  to  stay." 

[■4'] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


llfititf 


Elizabeth  laughed  and  looked  at  me,  bewildered 
by  the  news,  and  then  she  closed  the  door  and 
slipped  the  chain  in  place. 

My  room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house,  with 
windows  overlooking  a  double  row  of  little,  green 
enclosures,  with  even  walks,  closely  cropped  sod, 
shrubs  and  flower-beds.  The  fences  were  almost 
hidden  by  flowering  vines.  The  room  itself  was 
large  and  home-like,  and  a  large,  soft-looking 
rocking  chair  was  waiting  by  a  window.  I  turned 
the  gas  out,  and  arranged  the  rocker  so  that  I 
could  lean  back  on  it  with  my  feet  against  the 
casement  and  still  look  out  upon  these  pleasant 
gardens.  And,  then,  from  the  actual  happenings 
of  the  day  and  from  the  peace  of  this  home-coming 
and  the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  vines  on  the 
fences,  and  the  shrubs  in  the  corners  stirring  as 
with  stealthy  visitors  gossiping  among  the  leaves, 
came  a  second  story  of  Peter  and  his  adventures 
in  the  world. 

And  presently  I  heard  Nancy  at  her  window 
just  above. 

"Hello,"  I  said;  "you  are  not  in  bed?" 

"No." 

"Will  you  take  dictation  at  this  hour?" 

[  142] 


TRUANTS 


irifinirrH^i 


"I'll  be  there  in  a  minute  with  my  notebook." 

When  she  came  in  she  held  out  her  hands  and  I 
took  them,  and  we  laughed. 

"I  could  not  sleep." 

"Nor  I." 

"I'll  get  a  lamp,"  she  said,  "and  not  light  the 
gas. 

She  arranged  her  table  near  me  and  hooded  the 
lamp  with  a  dark  shade,  in  such  a  way  that  the 
light  shone  on  her  book,  but  did  not  fill  the 
room.  This  left  me  by  the  open  window  in  the 
shadow. 

When  she  bent  her  head  above  her  notebook  it 
came  within  the  circle  of  light. 

"Poor,  lonely  scribblers,"  I  thought,  "who  must 
find  their  cold  comfort  in  the  moon." 

When  the  story  was  finished  Nancy  blew  out 
the  light,  for  day  was  breaking.  Together  we 
leaned  upon  the  window  sill  and  watched  the  sun 
rise  over  the  opposite  buildings,  and  now,  of 
course,  I  could  see  that  these  were  ordinary  paint- 
ed brick  walls,  and  that  there  were  spaces  where 
the  grass  had  given  out,  and  the  ground  was  bare. 
Some  of  the  fantasies  of  the  night  were  gone,  but 
the  fences  were  still  covered  with  climbing  roses, 

[143] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


the  syringa  was  in  bloom,  the  air  of  the  morning 
was  cool  and  fresh  upon  our  faces,  and  the  joys 
of  life  were  real. 

We  heard  sounds  of  stirring  in  the  house.  Eliza- 
beth was  preparing  breakfast,  and  presently  my 
door  was  opened  and  Nancy's  mother  appeared. 
She  thought  that  we  might  better  have  spent  the 
night  in  slumber,  but  she  gave  me  a  pleasant  wel- 
come for  her  daughter's  sake.  I  think  she  liked 
me  on  her  own  account  when,  at  breakfast,  she 
was  permitted  to  help  me  to  the  fourth  lamb  chop. 
She  was  full  of  human  kindness  at  that  time.  She 
possessed  a  sense  of  humor  and  was  interested  in 
people  and  events. 

She  ate  heartily  herself,  told  an  excellent  story, 
thought  no  evil,  and  smiled  indulgently  upon  my 
returning  plate. 

I  hurried  over  to  New  York,  and  came  back 
upon  my  wheel.  The  girls  were  waiting  for  me 
at  the  gate.  I  was  glad  Elizabeth  was  to  go  with 
us,  there  was  such  a  look  of  expectation  in  her 
eyes. 

"Have  you  got  your  notebook  ?"  I  asked  Nancy. 

"Yes ;  I  thought  we  might  hear  something  more 
of  Peter  on  the  way." 

[  144] 


TRUANTS 


''When  will  you  be  back?"  asked  the  mother 
from  the  doorway. 

"Perhaps  by  Monday,"  I  replied. 

"I'll  telegraph  you  now  and  then,"  called  Nancy 
as  we  rode  away. 

The  roads  of  Long  Island  are  as  smooth  as 
asphalt.  For  an  hour  the  rubber  tires  hummed 
without  interruption.  We  did  not  talk.  There 
was  at  first  exhilaration  and  content,  and  then  con- 
tent. The  sun  grew  warm.  A  grove  appeared. 
We  looked  at  each  other  with  heavy  eyes,  and,  dis- 
mounting, pushed  our  wheels  across  a  field  and 
slept,  and  while  we  sleep  you  may  read  this  study 
of  Elizabeth,  prepared  long  after,  when  I  knew 
her  well : 

Elizabeth  had  originally  entered  the  household 
as  a  maid,  but  that  had  been  forgotten  long  since. 
Nancy  knew  some  of  her  brothers  and  sisters  in 
Brooklyn,  and  when  Elizabeth  came  to  them  from 
Ireland  she  secured  her  at  once. 

Elizabeth  was  a  young  girl  then,  but  from  the 
first  she  seemed  to  know  how  to  do  things  by  in- 
stinct. It  was  only  necessary  for  her  to  put  the 
pot  upon  the  stove,  and,  behold,  it  brought  forth 
good  coffee.     She  could  apparently  mix  at  hap- 

[145] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


.frjiiViryAr^n 


hazard  a  few  things  in  a  dish,  leave  it  in  the  oven, 
for  a  while,  and  it  would  come  out  a  delicious 
pudding. 

In  the  evening  of  ironing  day,  when  the  laun- 
dry, spotless,  smooth  and  stiff,  was  hung  upon  the 
bars  by  the  fireside  for  its  final  warming,  it  was  an 
ornament  to  the  room.  I  have  sometimes  caught 
an  expression  in  Elizabeth's  eyes  as  they  lifted  to 
quietly  contemplate  this  white  array,  that  one 
might  expect  to  see  in  those  of  an  artist,  who  views 
with  complacence  the  finished  statuary.  Some- 
times, in  passing,  she  buried  her  face  in  the 
clothes,  laughing  and  calling  our  attention  to  their 
odor  of  cleanliness.  When  she  went  shopping,  she 
seemed  to  gather  from  every  corner  impressions 
of  styles  and  designs.  She  would  come  from  an 
afternoon's  outing,  impatient  to  reproduce  for 
Nancy  or  herself  a  shirtwaist,  a  skirt  or  a  hat  she 
had  seen.  Sometimes  when  she  spoke  there  was 
a  trace  of  accent.  When  she  was  gayest,  and  this 
accent  most  pronounced,  her  voice  was  so  soft 
that  the  quaint  expressions  and  phrases,  with  the 
old  Gaelic  twang,  reminded  you  more  of  the  pecu- 
liarities of  the  refined  Southerner.  She  sometimes 
pronounced  "cook"  "coo-ke,"  but  it  sounded  from 

[146] 


TRUANTS 


her  lips  like  a  coo.  Pretty  and  attractive  as  she 
was,  loving  life  and  laughing  in  her  enjoyment  of 
it,  it  is  strange  that  in  all  these  years  she  had  never 
formed  a  friendship  outside  of  her  own  family. 
Her  idea  of  a  good  time  was  a  romp  with  them. 

In  the  winter,  when  the  snow  fell,  she  hailed  it 
with  the  glee  of  a  child.  She  returned  one  even- 
ing, her  eyes  dancing  with  delight,  her  cheeks  red 
with  the  wind,  and  told  us  of  the  fun  she  had  had 
with  her  brothers  and  sisters  rolling  each  other 
in  the  snow,  leaving  their  images  in  it,  making 
effigies  of  their  long-ago  neighbors  in  Ireland. 
There  were  two  in  particular — those  of  old  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Murphy,  the  eccentric,  lawless  school 
teachers  of  their  childhood.  Elizabeth  delighted 
in  the  memories  of  this  old  life  in  Ireland,  dwell- 
ing affectionately  on  its  least  detail. 

They  lived  on  an  inherited  lease  of  seventy-five 
acres,  adjoining  Goldsmith's  place  in  Auburn. 
Every  morning  all  of  the  children  carried  their 
bedclothes  to  the  meadows,  or  into  the  garden,  for 
an  airing.  They  took  their  morning  bath  in  the 
nearby  brook.  They  were  sent  to  the  National 
School,  a  high-sounding  name  for  a  crude  affair. 
It  was  an  old,  one-story  structure  in  the  country, 

[147] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^n^w 


presided  over  by  Mr.  Murphy  and  his  portly  wife. 
To  these  worthy  instructors  there  was  but  one 
important  exercise  of  the  w^eek,  the  collection  of 
the  fees  Monday  morning.  They  taught  a  few 
easy  exercises  for  use  in  case  the  parish  priest 
should  call. 

On  a  fine  morning  the  quiet  of  the  school  might 
be  disturbed  by  the  halloas  of  the  hunt,  which 
swept  that  way,  and  then  there  was  a  riotous  rush 
for  the  door — a  stampede  which  a  poor  old 
woman  encumbered  with  flesh,  or  the  more  active 
Mr.  Murphy,  could  not  withstand.  The  whole 
school  rushed  after  the  horses  and  the  hounds, 
and  when  these  were  lost  to  view  they  followed 
some  sport  of  their  own  through  the  fields,  with 
no  more  thought  of  school  that  day.  If  there  was 
to  be  a  housewarming  or  a  barn-raising,  or  any 
event  of  sufiicient  inspiration,  the  school  would 
vanish  through  doors  atid  windows,  pursued  by 
Mrs.  Murphy  as  far  as  the  gate.  Here  she  would 
stand,  shaking  her  fist  and  shouting  threats.  So 
when  they  built  their  snow  images,  they  inscribed 
upon  the  breast  of  Mr.  Murphy  his  favorite 
phrase,  "Ye  inveterate  puppies,  I'll  scald  the 
hearts  and  bodies  of  yez,"  and  on  Mrs.  Murphy 

[148] 


TRUANTS 


they  wrote,  "Wait  till  the  maarnin',  whin  I'll 
murther  yez." 

It  was  a  pleasure  for  Nancy  and  me  to  find 
ways  of  giving  her  delight. 

To  travel  with  us  in  a  witless  way,  sleeping 
where  the  night  overtook  us,  was  a  joy  to  her,  and 
she  helped  us  find  merriment  in  simple  things. 
She  sat  with  us  as  we  read  aloud.  If  I  tried 
to  talk  with  her  concerning  what  she  heard, 
she  had  little  to  say,  but  if,  unknown  to  her, 
I  watched  her  face  as  she  listened,  I  could 
follow  the  changing  moods  as  readily  as  the 
movements  of  the  boughs  reflected  in  a  clear 
stream. 

There  were  many  times  when  she  w^as  quietly 
reading  to  herself,  sewing  or  idly  thinking,  when 
I  wondered  what  her  thoughts  could  be.  There 
was  something  almost  sad  at  these  times — some- 
thing suggesting  the  tender  melancholy  of  the  twi- 
light in  her  face;  but  if  I  spoke  to  her,  then  all 
this  was  swept  away  instantly,  and  if  I  asked  her 
for  her  thoughts  she  would  laugh.  Her  good 
spirits  were  as  simple  and  spontaneous  as  her  re- 
ligion. When  she  was  with  us  in  the  country  she 
could  not  ahvays  go  to  mass. 

[  149] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"Do  you  confess  that  to  the  priest?"  I  asked 
her. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  wouldn't  bother  him  with  it." 

She  seemed  to  combine  the  spirit  of  a  child  with' 
the  skill  of  a  perfect  housekeq^er.  She  shopped, 
she  paid  the  bills,  kept  the  household  account  in 
the  bank,  saw  to  the  wardrobes,  managed  every- 
thing, and  seemed  never  to  have  much  to  do.  She 
was  without  art  or  design.  Her  philosophy  was 
that  of  the  brook.  She  lived  naturally  and  gayly 
that  which  others  preach. 

When  we  awoke,  it  was  still  pleasanter  among 
the  trees  than  on  the  road,  and  so,  mindful  of  the 
mandate  to  the  sluggard,  we  wrote  a  little  and  ate 
the  lunch  Elizabeth  had  brought.  Fortunately, 
we  were  not  obliged  to  go. 

By  one  o'clock  we  felt  like  moving,  and,  fortu- 
nately, we  need  not  stay. 

Thoreau  found  the  world  at  WaJden,  but  he 
could  have  found  it  also  in  Kalamazoo  or  a  corn- 
field. We  need  not  go  a  hundred  miles  for  a  peck 
of  dirt,  but  sometimes  it  is  worth  while  just  to  go 
a  hundred  miles.  And  a  wheel  beneath  you  makes 
a  pleasant  sound.  Up  hill,  down  dale,  through 
towns  and  a  changing  world  of  fields,  idly  looking, 

[150] 


TRUANTS 

the  wind  brushing  our  cheeks,  the  song  of  the 
chains  and  the  rhythmic  drumming  of  the  pneu- 
matic tires,  now  and  then  a  word  requiring  no 
answer.  In  this  way  three  hours  passed,  as  might 
three  hundred  years,  without  a  sense  of  time.  A 
song,  a  Httle  laughter,  a  glance  of  love,  a  com- 
passionate word  or  two,  and  life  is  over — why  pro- 
long it  with  a  dull  complaint?  Suspicion  is  a 
thankless  load.  Good-will,  good  faith  will  carry 
you.  They  are  as  wings  to  the  feet.  They  change 
uncertainty  into  innocent  delight,  smooth  dog- 
matic wrinkles  from  the  face  of  life,  and  in  the 
cheeks  of  fate  poke  foolish  dimples  such  as  cherubs 
have. 

We  saw  four  cows  in  a  pasture,  boys  playing 
marbles  near  a  fountain  in  Flushing,  a  cat  dozing 
on  a  stone  wall,  an  old  lady  in  a  print  gown,  apron 
and  sunbonnet,  running  strings  for  her  morning 
glory  vines,  a  flock  of  hens  dusting  in  the  road, 
pigs  in  a  mud  puddle,  back  of  a  barn  a  man  plow- 
ing, women  and  children  in  the  truck  gardens, 
apple  orchards  in  full  bloom,  a  girl  putting  milk 
pans  in  a  row  on  the  wood  pile  to  sun,  a  chipmunk 
running  a  fence,  and  before  we  were  aware  the 
road  made  a  short  turn  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  and 

[151] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


skirted  the  rippling  edges  of  the  sound  at  high 
tide.  It  was  a  curving  beach  of  white  sand.  We 
splashed  our  faces,  and,  climbing  a  green  em- 
bankment, made  pillows  of  our  wheels  and  stretch- 
ed ourselves  upon  the  grass  and  looked  over  the 
sound.  Here  we  lay  until  the  twilight  fell,  blend- 
ing the  tints  of  sunset  on  the  water  into  purple. 
The  white  sails  became  shadows  and  vanished  and 
appeared  again  like  ghosts  in  the  moonlight.  But 
this  increasing  beauty  was  not  so  wonderful  to  me 
as  had  been  the  moment  between  sundown  and 
dark,  for  even  then  with  Nancy  beside  me  I  was 
content.  And  since  that  moment,  though  years 
have  passed,  the  twilights  have  lost  their  once 
familiar  melancholy  when  she  is  near. 

At  that  time  Nancy  was  thirty-seven,  but  she 
was  glad  to  forget  the  last  seventeen  years,  and 
that  made  her  twenty. 

We  were  not  foolish  enough  to  ignore  tele- 
phones, however,  simply  because  they  were  not  in 
common  use  seventeen  years  before.  Every  morn- 
ing, in  fact,  Nancy  telephoned  to  her  office  for  a 
week,  from  College  Point,  Sea  Cliff,  from  Tarry- 
town,  from  Perth  Amlx>y,  the  Atlantic  High- 
lands and  from  Far  Rockaway. 

[152] 


TRUANTS 


f  rttiryr-cB 


I  had  started  with  ten  dollars,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  week  it  was  almost  gone.  We  had  been  a  little 
extravagant,  for  on  the  two  or  three  occasions 
when  we  had  wanted  dinner  at  a  shore  hotel  or  at 
a  road  house  we  had  not  hesitated,  and  one 
night,  when  it  rained,  we  had  thought  it  best  to 
sleep  inside.  For  the  rest  we  lived  very  hap- 
pily on  bread,  milk,  bananas,  figs,  crackers  and 
cheese. 

Our  only  thought  for  the  morrow  was  con- 
nected with  the  morning  bath ;  our  only  concern 
that  we  awake  by  the  sound  or  the  sea.  Some- 
times we  took  our  breakfast  from  a  bag;  some- 
times w^e  foraged  for  it.  And  through  all  these 
days  ran  the  story  of  Peter  and  his  adventures  in 
the  world ;  we  wrote  it  by  the  roadside,  in  fields, 
in  groves,  on  the  sunny  side  of  stone  walls,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson,  the  edge  of  the  Palisades. 
It  was  finished  in  a  meadow  of  Prospect  Park,  as 
we  watched  the  old  shepherd  and  his  collies  tend- 
ing the  city's  sheep. 

I  think  it  would  be  impossible  for  three  people 
to  spend  six  happier  days.  For  Nancy,  Elizabeth 
and  me,  they  were  the  beginning  of  six  happy 
years.     The  future  troubled  us  very  little  then, 

[153] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


*^4p 


although  a  hundred  comphcations  were  waiting  to 
undo  us  if  we  but  said  the  word. 

We  ignored  traditions,  assuming  our  right  to 
be  happy  on  a  Httle,  and  to  make  that  Httle  in  a 
pleasant  way.  The  summer  was  passed  in  ram- 
bles, with  no  excuse  for  our  behavior  except  our 
delight  in  it. 

Nancy  was  in  her  office  now  and  then  and  some- 
times she  spent  a  night  at  home. 

In  the  course  of  that  first  summer  Nancy 
and  Elizabeth  deserted  me,  going  for  August 
and  September  into  the  mountains.  I  re- 
mained in  New  York  alone,  because  I  was  too 
poor  to  follow  them.  Their  occasional  letters 
tempted  me  with  visions  of  cool  forests  and 
mountain  brooks.  I  missed  these  companions 
dear  to  me. 

In  September  Nancy  wrote  that  the  summer 
boarders  had  gone  and  the  mountains  were  begin- 
ning to  assume  their  greatest  beauty.  This  letter 
spoke  to  me  with  a  familiar  voice,  friendly,  tender 
and  beseeching.  Then  I  received  fifty  dollars  for 
my  first  article  in  one  of  the  regular  magazines. 
Three  hours  after  the  money  was  in  my  hands  I 
was  on  the  train  for  the  mountains. 

[>54] 


TRUANTS 

When  we  returned  that  fall  we  had  a  little  piece 
of  land  to  pay  for.  For  two  months  we  worked 
systematically,  and  the  thing  was  done.  Then, 
following  a  vagrant  impulse,  we  built  a  cabin  on 
an  island  in  the  sound  and  spent  a  summer  there, 
testing  the  dream  of  idleness  in  its  most  alluring 
haunt.  The  record  of  this  experiment  and  the 
things  it  brought  to  us  have  been  truthfully  told 
in  the  form  of  a  book.* 

Then  followed  another  visit  to  the  mountains, 
and  the  wish  to  have  a  home. 

"When  we  have  seven  thousand  dollars,"  said 
Nancy,  'Til  go." 

We  were  sitting  by  her  office  window  at  the 
close  of  a  fall  day. 

"Why  do  you  wait  for  that?"  I  asked. 

"How  could  we  do  anything  without  it?" 

"But  you  long  so  much  to  go?" 

"I  do;  I  wish  I  could  leave  this  business  and 
the  city  to-night,  and  never  see  them  again." 

"If  I  felt  that  way  about  it  I  would  start  with 
no  more  than  a  ferry  ticket,  and  if  I  didn't  have 
that  I  would  not  wait,  I'd  swim.  But,  you  see, 
the  fact  is  you  don't  really  want  to  go  up  there  as 

*  "An  Island  Cabin." 

[155] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


much  as  you  want  to  stay  here  and  get  seven 
thousand  dollars." 

"But  don't  you  think  that  would  be  safer?" 

"There  is  danger  in  it." 
•  "You   don't   think   I   could   form   the  money- 
making  habit?"  she  exclaimed. 

"There  is  danger  of  wasting  the  present  for 
some  future  thing.  You  might  easily  lose  five  or 
ten  years  that  way." 

"I  am  sure  we  ought  to  have  seven  thousand," 
said  Nancy  pensively. 

It  was  a  year  and  a  half  since  I  had  brought  the 
story  of  Peter  to  her  shop.  At  that  time  I  would 
have  read  her  a  lecture  for  persisting  in  this  folly, 
and  left  her.  There  is  nothing  gained  in  wishing 
for  two  opposing  things  at  once.  "I  long  to  go, 
but  I  must  stay,"  is  the  way  to  trick  ourselves  into 
unhappiness.  If  we  must  stay,  it  is  because  we 
desire  something  here.  Then  let  us  be  frank  with 
ourselves,  acknowledge  that  we  are  really  doing 
the  thing  we  wish  most  to  do,  and  do  it  gladly. 
If,  then,  there  is  no  happiness  in  it,  the  thing  is 
not  worth  the  doing,  whatever  be  the  end  in  view, 
for  the  liberty  of  to-morrow  is  never  worth  the 
slavery  of  to-day. 

[>56j 


TRUANTS 


But  I  did  not  lecture  Nancy.  I  agreed,  in  fact, 
to  give  five  years  to  hoarding  with  her.  Those 
who  have  read  "An  Island  Cabin"  and  "The 
House  in  the  Woods"  will  understand  the  reasons. 
In  the  first  place,  Nancy  herself  was  worth  the 
concession.  But,  aside  from,  this,  after  an  ex- 
perience together  in  complete  liberty,  we  were 
ready  to  make  a  voluntary  return  to  some  of  the 
requirements  of  civilization.  We  had  escaped  from 
the  greedy  fever  of  ambition.  Free  to  choose,  we 
had  tasted  for  ourselves  the  dream  of  solitude  and 
of  idleness,  and  had  found  that,  while  any  one 
may  have  an  island  who  will  take  it,  there  is  no 
sea  wide  enough  to  separate  us  from  the  world. 
Our  very  abandonment  to  delight  had  brought  us 
in  the  end  to  a  comfortable  reconciliation  with 
some  of  the  practical  requirements  of  the  world, 
and  so  when  we  chose  our  retreat  in  the  mountains 
and  planned  a  home  our  vision  took  more  ma- 
terial, if  poetic,  forms. 

We  had  lived  for  a  season  as  one  drinks  water 
from  a  spring,  and  on  a  stolen  holiday  picks  wild 
berries  from  the  bushes  of  the  wilderness.  And 
now,  because  w^e  still  felt  free  to  do  this,  we  suc- 
ceeded in  our  plan;  that  is,  we  really  secured  a 

[157] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


comfortable  nest  in  the  forest,  and  were  not  en- 
slaved by  it.  And  because  we  found  our  interest 
and  pleasure  in  very  simple  living,  five  years  were 
not  required,  but  only  three.  And  all  this  was 
accomplished  in  doing  only  what  we  had  been 
glad  to  do,  without  pay  other  than  the  free  rations 
from  life's  common  store.  There  are  thousands  of 
ways  of  making  our  bed  and  board  in  New  York, 
and  for  our  pleasure  there  is  the  continuous  per- 
formance of  the  streets. 


<) 


A^O^Xft^ 


X? 


[158] 


CHAPTER  IX 


AN  OPENING  AT  THE  BRIDGE 


N  the  days  when  I  had  worked 
on  newspapers  I  had  conceived 
a  horror  for  that  hfe.  Now  it 
occurred  to  me  that  this  was 
due,  perhaps,  to  my  point  of 
view.  If  Hfe  be  looked  upon 
as  a  battle  with  personal  glory  for  the  prize,  the 
regiment  of  journalism  is  a  poor  one  to  choose. 
It  is  used  to  fill  up  ditches  with,  that  heroes  may 
pass  over. 

But  now  that  I  no  longer  cared  to  own  a  news- 
paper nor  envied  the  success  of  diplomats,  thieves, 
gamesters  or  warriors,  nor  feared  to  lose  my  job, 
it  might  be  possible  to  work  on  one  and  succeed 
in  my  own  way. 

In  the  effort  to  find  a  first  enterprise  that  would 

['59] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


fit  a  newspaper  and  my  point  of  view,  I  thought 
of  the  mob  that  pours  out  of  Broadway  into  Cham- 
bers street  and  pushes  irresistibly,  hke  a  hungry 
serpent,  through  the  walks  of  the  park,  across 
Park  Row,  to  the  entrance  to  the  bridge.  Often 
in  this  frightful  melee,  I  have  gripped  the  handle 
of  the  car,  to  have  my  arm  almost  dragged  out  of 
me.  I  have  fought  to  keep  my  feet,  to  hold  my 
position,  to  move  ahead,  to  mount  the  steps,  and 
been  jammed  into  a  corner  of  the  rear  platform, 
my  hat  over  my  eyes,  my  glasses  broken,  my  feet 
and  ribs  sore  from  blows.  The  car  was  filled,  and 
yet  it  seemed  to  me  I  was  among  the  first  to 
mount. 

In  all  this  struggle  I  was  conscious  of  a  certain 
commanding  presence,  a  powerful  arm  that  stood 
between  me  and  destruction,  and  I  knew  that  the 
old  woman  gasping  close  to  me  would  be  shielded 
from  the  pillar  and  the  corner  of  the  car.  On 
many  nights  I  had  iDeen  conscious  of  this  influence 
and  had  frequently  glanced  at  the  man  who  exer- 
cised it.  He  was  certainly  a  marvel  to  see,  this 
giant  who  keeps  the  mobs  in  place.  Six  feet  three 
inches  tall,  he  towered  atove  the  mass  of  frantic 
'heads,  which  he  constantly  scanned,  as  a  mariner 

[i6o] 


c 


3 
TO 


3 

3 
O 
n 


n 

D3 

O 

o 

3 

cc 

ni 


AN  OPENING  AT  THK  BRIDGE 


^n^w 


the  threatening  sea,  and  from  his  clear,  blue  eyes 
came  a  steady,  magnetic  light  of  watchfulness, 
intelligence  and  command.  I  marveled  at  the 
pushing,  clamoring  multitude,  and,  more  than  all, 
at  his  unruffled  temper,  in  the  midst  of  so  much 
madness.  I  began  to  wonder  if  he  were  always 
good-natured  and  self-possessed,  if  he  held  these 
qualities  unconsciously  or  if  he  cultivated  them, 
and  from  this  wondering  came  speculation  con- 
cerning this  attitude  toward  the  world,  and  that 
of  the  world  toward  him. 

I  thought  this  subject  might  answer  for  a  be- 
ginning, and  in  the  morning  I  took  my  stand  near 
the  loop,  determined  to  see  if  he  kept  his  temper 
for  eleven  hours  of  such  a  strain. 

I  was  early,  and  during  the  ten  minutes  before 
his  appearance  I  shivered  in  the  wind.  This 
bridge  entrance  is  the  coldest  spot  in  New  York. 
A  strong  draft  sweeps  through  it,  and  there  is 
neither  sunlight  nor  shelter  anywhere.  I  stood 
near  the  stairs  that  lead  to  the  elevated  trains,  but 
the  bitter  wind  rushed  after  me,  now  from  this 
side,  now  from  that.  I  turned  up  my  coat  collar, 
blew  on  my  hands  and  humped  my  shoulders. 
This  thing  was  possible  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  but 

[163] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


vrMirirr',r 


the  thought  of  enduring  it  until  ten  at  night  was 
appalhng. 

At  two  minutes  to  nine  he  came  briskly  out  of 
Park  Row,  and  walked  to  the  track  over  which 
he  presides.  His  gigantic  form  was  clothed  in  a 
long,  thick  overcoat  that  came  to  his  ankles.  The 
collar,  turned  up  to  his  ears,  was  met  by  the  flaps 
of  a  felt  cap.  He  wore  overshoes  and  leather 
gloves.  A  DeKalb  avenue  car  had  just  swung 
around  the  loop  and  stopped.  The  passengers 
were  coming  out  by  the  front  door,  those  in  the 
car  pushing,  close  upon  each  other's  heels,  and 
there  was  great  confusion.  Here  was  a  man  hold- 
ing back,  in  considerable  vexation,  against  those 
pressing  from  behind.  An  uncertain  old  lady 
would  hobble  down,  pausing  on  each  step,  and, 
when  the  ground  was  reached,  stand  for  a  men 
ment  in  every  one's  way,  to  look  about  her  anx- 
iously or  to  fumble  in  her  bag  for  an  address. 
John  Doyle  strode  at  once  to  this  car,  and,  behold 
the  change!  He  reached  his  long  arm  into  the 
platform,  and,  taking  the  first  passenger  by  the 
elbow,  brought  him  along  quickly  down  the  steps, 
and,  with  a  strong  sweep  outward,  helped  him 
some  distance  from  the  car.    In  a  twinkling  he  had 

[164] 


AN  OPENING  AT  THE  BRIDGE 


reached  in  again  for  the  elbow  of  the  next  one. 
He  worked  Hke  a  man  swinging  a  scythe.  The 
whole  line  moved  swiftly  and  steadily  now  and 
the  car  was  emptied.  Then  he  stepped  briskly  to 
the  rear  platform  to  bring  order  out  of  the  confu- 
sion of  those  who  were  seeking  to  enter.  When 
he  arrived,  there  was  no  longer  hesitation  or  delay. 
He  lifted  children  and  old  ladies  from  the  ground 
to  the  platform,  and,  placing  his  broad  palm 
against  the  back  of  others,  pushed  them  steadily 
up  the  steps.  If  you  will  watch  this  spectacle  of 
the  bridge  for  a  day  you  will  discover  that  we,  a 
civilized  people,  cannot  enter  or  leave  a  car  in  a 
considerate  and  rational  manner,  and  that,  like 
any  drove  of  beasts,  we  must  have  our  herdsman. 

As  the  car  moved  on,  the  giant  walked  briskly 
back  and  forth  along  the  track.  He  held  his  head 
up  and  his  shoulders  back.  He  took  deep  breaths 
of  the  cold  air,  filling  his  great  chest  with  it  and 
blowing  it  out  in  steam.  Now  and  then  he  flayed 
his  body  with  resounding  blows.  I  came  from 
under  the  stairs,  took  the  hump  from  my  back, 
threw  out  my  chest,  walked  near  him,  beat  my 
body  also  and  grew  warmer. 

Another  car  came  out  and  was  emptied  and 

[165] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^f^^f^ 


filled,  with  his  assistance.  Every  few  moments 
this  task  was  repeated,  and  in  the  intervals  he 
paced  his  beat.  There  wa^  no  great  crowd  at  this 
time  in  the  morning,  but  a  scattering  swarm  of 
people  were  constantly  passing.  During  one  hour 
I  counted  eighty  people,  more  than  one  to  the 
minute,  who  stopped  and  spoke  to  him.  Six  of 
these  were  friends,  the  rest  were  strangers  who 
questioned  him. 

A  woman  caught  the  giant  by  the  arm,  and  he 
bent  his  head  toward  her. 

"I  have  been  waiting  here  ten  minutes  for  a 
Court  street  car !" 

He  stretched  out  his  arm  and  pushed  her  away 
from  the  track  as  a  car  came  around  the  curve. 
She  tried  to  get  in  front  of  him,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  hold  her  firmly  out  of  reach  of  the  man- 
catcher.  As  he  helped  the  passengers  out  she 
stood  at  his  elbow,  saying  in  a  loud  voice : 

"What  has  happened  to  the  0)urt  street 
cars?" 

"They  are  running  on  time." 

"They  ain't,  either !  I  am  freezing  here  in  this 
wind.     You  ought  to  have  this  place  enclosed; 

you " 

[i66] 


AN  OPENING  AT  THE  BRIDGE 


"There  comes  a  Court  street  car,  madam,  on 
the  second  track." 

A  man  poked  him  with  his  cane. 

"I  want  to  go  to  Seven-ninety-nine street." 

"Don't  know  the  street." 

"You  don't  ?    What  are  you  here  for  ?" 

"What  part  of  Brooklyn  is  it?" 

"That's  what  I  want  to  find  out." 

"Better  look  in  a  directory." 

"Oh,  pshaw !"  He  wore  side- burns  and  a  white 
lawn  tie. 

A  pleasant-looking  woman,  with  a  soft  voice, 
stopped  to  tell  him  he  must  have  a  hard  job 
there. 

"I  hate  to  trouble  you,"  she  added,  "but  could 
you  tell  me  what  car  I  should  take  to  reach  Han- 
cock near  Lewis?" 

"Putnam  and  Halsey." 

A  little,  battered  old  woman,  wrapped  in  a 
dirty  shawl,  was  squinting  about  her  and  mum- 
bling to  herself. 

"Where  are  you  going,  grandmother?"  asked 
the  giant,  stooping  over  her. 

"Grandmother  yourself.     Go  on ;  to with 


you!" 


[167] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  looked  at  a  scrap 
of  paper  she  held. 

"You  want  a  Greene  and  Gates,"  he  said. 
"Stand  here  by  this  post,  and  Fll  tell  you  when 


one  comes." 


He  moved  toward  a  car  that  had  stopped,  and 
the  old  woman  hobbled  on  to  the  track.  He 
stepped  back  quickly,  lifted  her  off,  and  took  her 
with  him,  holding  her  under  his  arm  as  he  helped 
the  passengers  out  and  in.  She  continued  to  mum- 
ble through  her  toothless  gums,  attempting  to  slip 
away.  He  held  her  gently,  patting  her  crooked 
shoulders.  When  her  car  came  he  took  her  to  it 
and  helped  her  on  board,  laughing  good-naturedly 
at  her  bald  abuse. 

During  these  morning  hours  he  had  time  to 
amuse  himself.  Handsome  women,  coquettish 
girls,  came  his  way,  but  he  did  not  heed  their 
smiles  or  glances.  He  lent  his  ear  to  their  ques- 
tions, gave  his  brief  answers,  and  dismissed  them 
with  a  motion  of  the  hand.  Politeness,  painful 
consideration  for  the  trouble  caused  him,  impa- 
tience or  abuse,  he  received  with  like  patience. 
He  listened,  answered,  moved  on  to  the  next  car. 
He  showed  no  feeling  whatever,  except  where  very 

[i68] 


AN  OPENING  AT  THE  BRIDGE 


^Ww 


old  ladies  were  concerned.  With  them  he  was  all 
gentleness.  The  alert  and  cultivated  old  lady,  he 
treated  with  considerate  respect;  the  blear-eyed, 
the  simple-minded,  with  humorous  affection.  An 
old  Italian  woman,  with  a  tag  on  her  breast,  kept 
edging  too  close  to  the  track.  He  moved  her  away 
several  times,  and  finally  picked  her  up  and  placed 
her  at  a  distance  of  six  feet.  He  whisked  a  piece 
of  chalk  from  his  pocket  and  drew  a  line  just  in 
front  of  her  toes.  Then  he  shook  his  finger  at 
her  and  left  her  there.  She  kept  her  toes  to  the 
line  until  he  came  for  her  and  took  her  to  her  car. 
Hour  after  hour  I  watched  and  wondered.  He 
noticed  me  at  last,  and  we  talked  a  little.  He  had 
held  this  job  for  four  years,  and  in  all  that  time 
he  had  neither  come  to  blows  nor  lost  his 
temper. 

"This  is  no  place  for  a  man  who  get's  mad," 
said  he.  *T  have  a  hundred  chances  for  a  row 
every  day.  I  can't  afford  to  get  angry  at  any- 
thing ;  if  I  did,  I  would  be  raving  all  the  time.  A 
job  like  this  will  fix  a  man  one  way  or  the  other 
pretty  soon.  He  will  be  good-natured  or  morose 
for  keeps.  I  am  naturally  good-natured,  and  I 
would  rather  stay  so." 

[169] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"You  were  chosen  for  this  place  on  that  ac- 
count, I  suppose?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"How  about  those  fellows  on  the  other  tracks?" 

"Same  with  them.  They  are  all  good-natured 
brutes.  Sometimes  one  of  'em  lets  go  and  gets 
cranky.  If  he  starts  that  way  once  he  goes  pretty 
fast  and  is  soon  discharged." 

"You  seem  to  be  fond  of  the  old  ladies." 

The  giant  laughed.  "What  makes  you  say 
that?" 

"I  have  been  watching  you." 

"It  comes  out,  does  it?" 

"Yes,  it  comes  out." 

"Well,  I  am  fond  of  them." 

A  car  came  in,  and  he  left  me  to  attend  to  it. 
As  the  day  passed,  our  conversation  became  more 
and  more  interrupted,  and  finally  ceased,  for  he 
was  as  busy  as  a  mill  wheel.  But  I  had  learned 
that  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  that  he  lived  with  and 
supported  his  old  mother.  She  was  now  in  her 
eightieth  year.  She  would  not  have  a  girl  in  the 
house,  because  she  wanted  to  do  for  him  herself, 
and  she  was  afraid  some  designing  hussy  might 
lead  him  astray.    Every  night  she  heated  his  bed 

[  170] 


AN  OPENING  AT  THE  BRIDGE 


'/ifMnrirrrn.B 


with  a  warming  pan.  Every  morning  she  asked 
him  if  he  had  put  on  his  flannel  chest-protector. 
She  prepared  him  a  warm  dinner  at  two  o'clock, 
and  when  he  left  her  after  it  she  always  told  him 
to  come  straight  home  at  night.  She  saw  to  it 
that  he  went  to  confession  and  to  mass  once  every 
week.     She  called  him  "Johnny." 

After  four  o'clock  I  could  not  speak  with  him 
again.  The  tramp  of  feet,  the  sound  of  voices, 
became  a  dull  roar.  Through  the  falling  twi- 
light poured  the  multitude  like  a  deluge,  threaten- 
ing to  sweep  the  bridge  away.  In  the  centre  of 
each  struggling  mass  stood  John  Doyle,  meeting 
the  mad  onslaught  ^vith  cool  good-nature.  Fists 
were  shaken  in  his  face,  angry  voices  roared  and 
screamed  up  at  him,  but  he  held  his  head  above 
the  scramble  and  gave  heed  only  to  his  labor. 

A  thousand  years  ago  such  a  man  would  have 
served  his  master  differently.  He  would  have  cut 
down  mobs,  and  been  hailed  as  a  hero  by  them. 
He  would  have  hewn  his  way  to  glory  and  riches. 
The  world  has  changed.  The  giant  now  is  not 
offered  a  principality  for  his  services,  but  is  paid 
two  dollars  and  a  half  a  day  for  the  strength  of  a 
Hercules,  the  disposition  of  a  Job,  the  wisdom  of 

[171] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Ww 


Socrates.  But  now,  at  least,  the  strong  man  is 
paid  to  be  gentle,  if  only  two  dollars  and  a  half  a 
day.  Perhaps  the  time  will  come  when  he  who 
serves  faithfully  in  this  will  find  as  great  honor 
in  his  success  as  did  the  ancient  victors  of  the 
sword. 

In  this  day's  experience  I  saw  only  what  any 
one  might  see,  told  it  simply,  and  taking  it  to  the 
Post,  a  place  was  given  to  me  as  a  reporter,  with 
a  salary  of  thirty  dollars  a  week. 


[  172] 


CHAPTER  X 


FREEDOM  IN  CAPTIVITY 


HERE  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of 
snow.  One  of  the  assistants, 
temporarily  in  charge  of  the 
city  desk,  sent  me  forth  to  see 
Major  Woodbury,  the  newly 
appointed  Commissioner  of 
Streets,  saying: 

"Have  a  good,  hot  column  of  roast  in  here  by 
eleven  o'clock.  We  turned  Tammany  out  because 
of  its  incompetency,  but  the  streets  were  never 
like  this  ten  hours  after  an  eight-inch  fall  of  snow. 
Roast  him !" 

In  those  former  years  I  would  have  gone  forth 
quaking,  bent  desperately  on  gathering  what  I 
was  sent  to  get,  thinking  only  of  my  job,  and  of 
the  hard  necessity  that  forced  me  to  such  tasks, 
and  I  would  have  secured  the  hot  roast  of  Wood- 

[  173  1 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


vr»f«riFr  rp 


bury,  while  longing  for  the  day  when  I  would  be 
as  conspicuous  and  as  rich  as  he. 

As  it  was,  I  said  to  myself:  "I  will  find  out 
what  a  snowfall  in  the  city  means,  what  the  task 
of  removing  it  is;  just  what  has  been  done  about 
this  one,  and  what  the  ideas  of  this  man  are." 

When  I  returned  Mr.  LeRoyd,  the  city  editor, 
was  in  his  chair,  but  I  reported  to  the  one  who 
sent  me. 

"We  don't  want  a  roast  on  Woodbury,"  I  said. 

"See  here,"  said  the  assistant  sharply,  "we  don't 
want  excuses,  we  want  clean  streets.  There  have 
been  forty  protests  from  the  West  Side  since 
morning." 

"Woodbury  is  a  great  man." 

"Prove  it,"  said  LeRoyd. 

"The  department  was  wrecked  by  Tammany. 
The  equipment  worn  out  and  not  replaced " 

"Cut  that,"  said  LeRoyd. 

"More  snow  has  been  removed  during  the  same 
number  of  hours,  and  for  a  less  sum,  by  $12,000, 
than  on  any  other  occasion  in  the  history  of  the 
city."    I  gave  the  figures. 

"Where  was  it  taken  from?"  asked  the  assis- 
tant, "from  the  housetops?" 

[174] 


TO 
n 

3 

o 

5' 

CTQ 

=r 
m 

3 
O 


FREEDOM  IN  CAPTIVITY 

MHiMHBiHiBk 


"1 


'From  the  East  Side.  The  department  never 
had  machinery  enough  to  attend  to  the  whole  city 
at  once,  and  always  before  this  the  West  End  was 
looked  after  first.  Woodbury  has  been  cleaning 
the  crowded  tenement  sections  because  filthy  snow 
is  a  breeder  of  disease." 

LeRoyd  pointed  his  finger  at  my  breast,  and, 
glancing  at  me  with  his  snapping  black  eyes,  said : 

"Write  your  story.    It's  great." 

During  that  winter  this  young  genius  of  an  edi- 
tor and  I  ransacked  the  city  and  searched  events 
for  the  soul  of  them. 

One  day  in  the  spring  I  said  to  him  : 

"It  would  be  interesting  to  find  out  why  Pros- 
pect Park  is  given  freely  to  the  people  and  Central 
Park  maintained  as  a  playground  for  the  police." 

"I  will  give  you  three  days  to  find  that  out," 
said  LeRoyd,  "but  if  you  need  more  take  them." 

I  started  upon  this  mission  with  conflicting  mo- 
tives. In  the  old  days  I  would  have  recognized 
but  one — the  desire  for  revenge. 

Here  was  surely  an  opportunity  to  repay  the 
policemen  of  Central  Park  for  their  marvelous 
activity  in  preventing  my  enjoyment  of  it.  For 
every  time  they  had  driven  Nancy  and  me  from  a 

D 177  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


pleasant  nook  I  could  sting  them  with  a.  para- 
graph. Now  it  was  not  difficult  to  silence  these 
petty  voices,  and  I  began  in  earnest  to  search  for 
the  real  reason  of  the  amazing  contrast  between 
the  relations  of  the  people  to  Central  Park  and 
Prospect  Park. 

Both  are  places  of  unusual  beauty.  In  the  one, 
however,  there  is  a  warning  sign  and  a  busy  po- 
liceman at  every  turn.  The  plantations  of  shrub- 
bery, the  shaded  slopes,  the  wooded  hills  are 
guarded,  and  no  one  may  step  upon  the  meadows 
without  a  permit.  In  the  other  there  are  no  rules, 
no  signs,  any  one  may  enter  the  gates  and  wander 
where  he  pleases.  It  had  always  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  a  peculiar  significance  in  the  official 
appearance  and  moral  atmosphere  of  the  very 
offices  of  these  two  parks.  Just  inside  Central 
Park,  at  Sixty-fourth  street,  is  a  building  of 
frowning  red  brick ;  originally  it  was  an  armory, 
and  it  still  looks  like  one,  austere  and  forbidding. 
This  is  the  home  of  the  Manhattan  Park  Depart- 
ment. No  one  entering  could  mistake  its  char- 
acter now.  It  is  rigidly  official — a  fit  place  in 
which  to  hatch  rules  and  oversee  their  strict  en- 
forcement. 

[178] 


FREEDOM  IN  CAPTIVITY 


^rtfirirr'P 


I  went  there  first  upon  my  quest  and  put  my 
questions  to  Mr.  Wilcox,  who'  was  then  Commis- 
sioner. 

"Brooklyn  is  not  New  York,"  he  said.  "There 
are  one  hundred  people  here  to  every  ten  in  Pros- 
pect Park.  From  the  beginning  Central  Park  has 
been  maintained  as  a  show  place.  In  Prospect 
Park  they  do  not  have  the  great  plantations  of 
rare  ornamental  shrubs  that  we  have  here.  We 
are  expected  to  preserve  these  bushes,  trees  and 
flower-beds,  and  the  one  way  to  do  it  is  to  keep 
the  people  from  them." 

"How  about  the  open  meadows?" 

"On  certain  days  the  people  are  permitted  there 
if  they  secure  permits.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
throw  them  open  and  preserve  the  grass." 

These  seemed  to  be  fitting  sentiments  tO'  issue 
from  so  grim  a  place. 

Now,  in  Prospect  Park,  high  on  a  hill,  in  the 
midst  of  a  thicket,  stands  the  old  Litchfield  Man- 
sion, at  one  time  a  lordly  residence  in  the  centre 
of  private  grounds.  It  is  now  the  office  of  the 
Brooklyn  Park  Department.  This  place  still  has 
a  hospitable  and  inviting  look.  High  trees  shelter 
it;  vines,  the  kind  that  housewives  love;  honey- 

[  179  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


suckle,  trumpet  and  wistaria  climb  up  the  porches 
and  drape  the  bay  windows  with  fragrant  cur- 
tains. The  doors  are  the  old  doors  of  the  house. 
The  entrance  does  not  seem  official,  and  the  rooms 
inside  are  still  those  of  a  comfortable  dwelling". 
There  are  seats  in  the  hall  for  callers  and  an 
amiable  butler  to  attend  them.  The  centre-table  is 
covered  with  books  and  magazines.  The  police 
headquarters  occupy  the  old  drawing-rooms,  and 
the  long,  old-fashioned  windows  swing  open  upon 
verandas  and  look  out  upon  a  pleasant  dooryard 
of  flower-beds  and  lawns.  Any  one  may  saunter 
around  this  room  unnoticed  by  the  captain,  seated 
in  a  cushioned  rocking  chair  in  the  bay  window, 
reading  the  daily  paper. 

"Captain,"  he  was  asked,  "what  are  the  rules 
of  this  park  ?" 

"None  to  speak  of,"  he  said.  "Of  course,  if 
we  caught  you  at  it,  we'd  prevent  you  from  break- 
ing the  limbs  of  trees  or  bushes,  or  from  rolling  in 
the  flower-beds.    That's  about  all." 

He  looked  up  over  his  glasses  with  a  smile  of 
genial  tolerance. 

Mr.  Young,  the  Commissioner,  occupied  the  old 
library.     He  was  a  large  man,  with  a  homelike 

[i8o] 


cr 
n 

c 


c' 


5  o 


c 


ft 


a 


o 


FREEDOM  IN  CAPTIVITY 


^Trw 


face,  capable,  kindly  and  as  simple  as  a  fanner. 
He  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  holding'  a  porta- 
ble 'phone,  and  talking  in  a  companionable  way  to 
his  coal  dealer. 

"Now,"  he  said,  in  friendly,  ponderous  tones, 
"you  will  do  that  for  me,  won't  you  ?  Be  sure  and 
send  it  in  one-ton  carts,  and  you  had  better  send 
only  one  or  two  loads  to-day,  for  it's  washday, 
you  know,  and  the  wash  will  be  hung  out  on  the 
lines." 

When  he  turned  at  last  to  me  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
about  to  talk  things  over  with  my  father,  and  that 
I  had  the  kind  of  a  father  one  can  talk  things  over 
with. 

"Why  is  it,"  I  asked,  "that  you  are  willing  to 
throw  this  whole  park  open,  unrestricted,  as  you 
do?" 

"That  is  what  a  park  is  for,"  he  answered 
slowly.  "We  are  here  tO'  make  it  a  beautiful  place 
for  the  people  to  enjoy,  and  we  work  for  that  end 
only." 

"How  many  people  are  here  on  a  pleasant 
day?" 

"A  hundred  thousand  or  more.  The  number  is 
increasing  every  year." 

[183  J 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


'.■«r*firirrrirB 


"If  the  crowds  become  too  great  you  will  have 
to  restrict  them  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  do  that. 
Any  number  of  people  could  roam  over  this  park 
without  injury  to  it,  so  long  as  they  don't  tramp 
in  single  file." 

"If  you  see  a  path  forming,  do  you  put  up  a 
sign?"" 

"I  don't  like  signs.  Who  can  enjoy  a  park  with 
signs  slapping  him  in  the  face?  We  just  drive  a 
couple  of  stakes  and  nail  a  stick  across  until  the 
trail  is  gone." 

"They  say  in  Central  Park  the  crowds  will  kill 
the  grass." 

"They  don't  take  the  care  of  it  over  there  that 
we  do.  They  don't  want  the  people  on  the  grass, 
and  we  do.  If  a  place  gets  a  little  worn  we  attend 
to  it  at  once,  and  then  we  use  great  care,  in  the 
first  place,  in  selecting  our  seed,  and  we  have 
men  at  work  all  the  time  searching  for  an- 
nual grass  and  destroying  it.  If  you  get  a  good, 
strong  sod,  and  take  the  right  care  of  it  no 
amount  of  use  will  hurt  it.  There  is  no  finer 
piece  of  lawn  in  the  world  than  our  croquet 
ground,   and   it  is  used  all   the  time.     Even   in 

[184] 


FREEDOM  IN  CAPTIVITY 


the  winter  it  is  cleaned  of  snow  to  let  people  play 
on  it." 

After  this  plain  interview  I  went  to  Manhattan's 
Commissioner  again  and  repeated  the  hopeful 
words  of  Mr.  Young  to  him.  Then  Mr.  Wilcox 
seemed  amazed,  and,  admitting  that  he  was  not 
an  expert,  sent  for  Samuel  Parsons,  the  city's 
landscape  architect.  He  might  have  been  the 
brother  of  Mr.  Young,  a  little  mellower,  perhaps, 
and  fashioned  upon  a  bigger  scale.  When  he 
looked  at  me  I  surely  saw  the  memorj'  of  Peter  in 
his  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  am  glad  to  find  some  one 
every  now  and  then  who  takes  an  interest  in  this. 
The  reason  why  Central  Park  must  be  protected  is 
because  the  soil  is  worthless.  You  may  not  see  it. 
Certainly,  the  great  masses  of  the  people  don't 
realize  it,  but  I  know  that  the  park  is  dying." 

Then  followed  the  interview  that  awoke  New 
York  one  day  from  its  complacent  sleep.  Mr. 
Parsons  himself  at  that  time  was  weary  with 
years  of  fruitless  appeals. 

Since  parks  were  first  laid  out  in  Manhattan  it 
had  been  the  same  old  story — the  effort  to  make 
as  g^eat  a.  show  as  possible.   Administrations  had 

[i8s] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


•-Ww 


vied  with  each  other  in  this  until  there  was  not  a 
park  on  the  island  with  sufficient  soil.  Just  enough' 
dirt  had  been  spread  over  the  surface  of  rock  and 
sand  to  produce  a  showy,  ephemeral  growth  of 
grass  and  shrubs.  For  eighteen  years  Samuel 
Parsons  had  persistently  preached  more  soil,  and, 
through  incredible  toil,  had  accomplished  some- 
thing here  and  there.  The  story  of  his  long  battle 
is  told  by  an  object  lesson  on  Eighth  avenue.  The 
trees  there  reveal  it,  like  the  actors  in  a  play.  The 
first  trees  planted,  some  twenty  years  ago,  were 
put  in  what  Mr.  Parsons  calls  "pot  holes."  When 
he  came  to  the  department  two  years  later  he 
began  his  plea  for  more  soil,  and  there  was  a  little 
improvement,  as  the  planting  proceeded  up  the 
avenue,  year  by  year.  Finally,  when  the  million 
dollars  was  given  the  parks  by  the  Legislature,  to 
help  the  poor,  by  giving  them  work,  Mr.  Parsons 
had  his  way,  and  he  made  the  holes  fourteen  feet 
long,  six  feet  wide,  and  four  feet  deep,  and  now 
the  trees  planted  eight  years  ago  are  bigger  and 
better  than  those  half-starved,  struggling  for  ex- 
istence through  twenty  years. 

"The  trouble  with  us  in  all  our  park-building," 
said  he,  "is  this:    We  have  laid  out  walks  and 

[i86] 


FREEDOM  IN  CAPTIVITY 


^iwtf 


drives  and  built  monuments  and  marble  buildings, 
and  scoured  the  earth  for  costly  trees  and  shrubs, 
and  then,  if  we  had  any  money  left,  we  have  spent 
it  on  the  soil.  Here  in  Manhattan,  at  least,  it 
should  have  been  the  other  way.  But  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  get  the  people  to  see  the  importance  of  such 
things  here.  They  have  not  acquired  the  depth  of 
feeling  necessary.  They  don't  seem  to  realize 
what  a  beautiful  tree  is,  and  what  it  means  to  have 
one,  and  until  they  do  they  won't  make  parks  as 
God  makes  them." 

All  this  and  more  I  published  in  my  first  story 
in  the  Post;  and  in  the  weeks  and  months  that  fol- 
lowed, Mr.  Parsons  renewed  his  youth,  for  we  dis- 
covered that  when  the  soul  of  the  city  was  ap- 
pealed to,  it  responded.  Newspapers,  city  officials, 
aldermen  and  taxpayers  were  aroused  by  the  is- 
sue. A  commission  was  appointed,  and  the  work 
of  renewing  the  soil  begun — an  undertaking  in- 
volving many  years  and  millions  of  dollars. 

Had  I  been  rich  I  would  have  spent  my  fortune 
for  the  privilege  of  doing  such  work.  With  my 
regular  salary  and  the  special  stories  sold  to  the 
supplement,  I  made  from  fifty  to  sixty  dollars  a 
week.    In  the  course  of  two  years  I  sold  twenty- 

187] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


three  articles  to  the  magazines,  receiving  eighteen 
hundred  dollars  for  them.  Most  of  the  subjects 
had  been  suggested  to  me  as  I  rambled  in  my  free- 
dom and  could  have  been  written  by  anybody  who 
could  find  interest  in  what  might  not  appear  to 
serve  himself,  who  could  hunt  for  good  in  things, 
take  pleasure  in  them,  and  think  a  little  over  what 
he  saw. 


[i88] 


^MS 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE   PLIGHT    OF    CRCESUS 


OW  long  will  men  convert  their 
cities  into  prisons,  corrupt  in- 
dustry by  intrigue  and  sap  the 
joys  of  society  by  exclusive- 
ness  and  arbitrary  forms? 
The  one  who  gets  too  much 
becomes  not  a  master,  but  a  slave. 

More  than  one  man  has  told  me  that  he  has  not 
walked  in  the  open  fields  or  idled  a  day  in  the 
woods  for  years.  The  earth  was  surely  not  made 
for  such  as  these,  and  yet  a  goodly  share  of  it  be- 
longs to  them.  The  earth  is  still  a  paradise,  and 
those  who  are  attune  with  its  simple  beauty  and 
content  with  its  bounty  may  find  in  it  a  perpetual 
joy.  It  is  only  the  desire  for  things  other  than 
paradise  offers  us  that  can  bring  disappointment 
and  sorrow.     Luxurious  abodes  and  fine  raiment 

[189] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


are  the  legitimate  perquisites  of  civilization,  and 
we  will  have  them ;  but  as  we  manage  now,  they 
cost  too  much.  Under  our  present  system.  Hon- 
esty, Industry  and  Thrift  are  not  the  secret  of  suc- 
cessful enterprise.  The  secret  lies  in  inducing 
people  to  buy  of  you,  and  in  making  them  pay. 
Competition  may  be  the  life  of  trade,  but  it  is 
death  to  the  trader. 

Now  that  the  history  of  the  Standard  Oil  is 
spread  before  us,  we  see  a  multitude  of  good  citi- 
zens seeking  to  cut  each  others'  throats,  until  one 
particularly  faithful  brother  is  charged  with  es- 
tablishing a  central  slaughter  house  and  doing  the 
butchering  for  them  all.  Many  a  man  who  holds 
a  respected  place  in  society,  who'  sits  in  his  office 
at  the  head  of  a  substantial  business,  who  is  promi- 
nent in  church  and  benevolences,  and  from  his 
comfortable  position  condemns  the  conduct  of  the 
criminal,  is  often  himself  deterred  from  crime 
only  by  love  of  the  place  in  society  that  he  has 
won.  Even  this  good  citizen,  with  a  malicious 
heart,  has  his  ideals  and  strives  to  attain  them. 
But  let  me  ask  you.  Is  it  possible  for  one  man  in 
ten  thousand  to  conceive  of  an  ideal  in  rags  ?  Does 
not  our  modern  conception  of  Greatness,  of  Good- 

[  190] 


THE  PLIGHT  OF  CRGESUS 


urifirHrmi 


ness,  of  Philanthropy  sit  in  a  fine  office  and  write 
large  checks  ? 

One  day  I  was  at  a  stockholders'  meeting,  talk- 
ing with  a  reporter  I  knew,  when  a  young  man, 
who  seemed  familiar  to  me,  passed  us,  smiling  in 
a  friendly  way. 

"Who  is  that  young  fellow?"  I  asked. 

"Charles  M.  Schwab." 

He  looked  very  young  and  unpretentious. 

"So  that  is  Schwab?"  I  said  wonderingly. 

"I  wish  I  had  his  dough,"  said  the  reporter', 
with  a  half-humorous,  half-savage  laugh. 

"What  would  you  do  with  it?" 

"Do?"  he  exclaimed  quickly;  "I'd  do  as  he 
does." 

"Automobiles,  yachts,  fast  horses,  clubs?" 

"The  same." 

In  a  few  moments  Mr.  Schwab  returned. 

"Do  you  work  for  money?"  I  asked.  He  was 
evidently  used  to  this  kind  of  question,  for  he  an- 
swered with  good-natured  readiness: 

"Last  year  I  could  not  spend  ten  per  cent. 
o;f  my  income  on  anything  pertaining  to  my- 
self." 

"There  was  a  time  when  you  did?" 

[191] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


■-Ww 


"When  I  began  to  work,  I  worked  for  nothing 
else.     I  wanted  to  be  rich." 

"Did  you  think  very  much  about  it  then  ?" 

"Yes ;  in  a  way.  I  know  that  I  used  to  laugh  at 
Carnegie  and  considered  philanthropy  as  a  sop 
successful  men  throw  to  their  consciences.  I  be- 
lieved that  all  men  like  myself  wanted  to  be  rich, 
that  they  might  live  extravagantly  and  spend  what 
they  pleased." 

"Your  views  have  changed?" 

"Yes ;  they  are  still  changing." 

"When  did  the  change  begin?" 

"When  I  found  myself  possessed 'of  more  than 
I  could  spend  for  my  own  goo<l.  As  my  income 
increased  I  tried  to  live  up  to  it.  I  discovered 
that  it  was  more  than  I  could  do  profitably.  I  dis- 
covered that  I  must  draw  the  line  somewhere  if  I 
were  to  enjoy  anything.  Since  then  I  have  some- 
times tried  to  draw  the  line  closer.  The  simpler  I 
live  the  better  I  feel.  If  to-day  I  were  compelled  to 
choose  between  living  up  to  five  hundred  thousand 
dollars  a  year  and  five  hundred  a  year  I  would 
choose  the  five  hundred," 

"And  what  are  you  working  for  now  ?" 

"I  am  trying  to  find  that  out.     The  old  incen- 

[  192  ] 


THE  PLIGHT  OF  CRCESUS 


^liwtf 


tive  is  gone,  but  I  find  myself  as  eager  as  before. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  interest  in  the  game,  and  yet  I 
don't  think  that  is  all.  I  am  not  altogether  satis- 
fied with  commercial  success.  I  would  like  to  do 
good  with  my  surplus." 

He  smiled  in  an  earnest,  friendly  way,  and 
added,  "But  it  is  hard  to  see  just  how." 

For  many  generations  we  have  pointed  to  this 
rich  man  or  that  and  urged  our  youths  to  fix  their 
ideals  there.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that 
while  every  one  possessing  a  sound  mind  is,  in  a 
general  way,  striving  toward  an  ideal,  we  are 
usually  seeking  to  reach  it  through  social  and 
financial  success?  Social  position  generally  fol- 
lows in  the  wake  of  wealth ;  and  wealth,  therefore, 
becomes  the  great  central  figure  in  our  aspira- 
tions. 

It  is  true  that  this  is  the  prevailing  incentive, 
but  it  is  the  incentive  of  a  passing  age.  We  are 
casting  suspicious  glances  upon  the  siren.  In  the 
last  few  years,  so  many  have  reached  her  and 
found  her  out !  The  greatest  figures  in  our  aris- 
tocracy of  wealth  and  power  no  longer  fire  the 
imagination.  They  have  been  suddenly  discov- 
ered walking  stealthily  in  the  shadow  of  the  peni- 

[  193] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


vrifirirri'r.B 


tentiary  and  unable  to  find  pleasure  in  their 
wealth,  even  were  they  free  to  claim  it  as  their 
own  and  enjoy  it.  Rockefeller  still  works  like  a 
drudge  and  has  no  time  for  pleasure,  and  they  say 
he  is  afraid.  He  enjoys,  at  most,  no  more  than  do 
thousands  of  the  people  he  employs. 

"I  would  give  a  million  a  year,"  he  exclaimed, 
"to  the  man  who  could  relieve  me  and  let  me  rest." 

Russell  Sage  assures  us  that  what  happiness  he 
receives  comes,  not  from  his  riches,  but  from  his 
simple  living.  He  is  happy  in  so  far  as  he  can 
escape  his  surplus  wealth.  Carnegie  reached  the 
siren,  received  her  treasures,  and  is  giving  them 
away. 

These  are  men  of  strongly  contrasting  types. 
And  now  comes  Schwab,  the  man  of  the  world, 
whose  blood  is  still  hot  with  the  desires  of  youth, 
in  whose  eyes  all  the  extravagant  luxuries  of  this 
inventive  age  take  alluring  forms,  to  add  to  the 
verdict  a  new  significance.  He  has  learned  that  to 
enjoy  his  possessions  he  should  limit  them.  There 
is  a  line  over  which  he  may  not  go  without  loss  to 
himself. 

The  line  of  profitable  possession  will  some  day 
be  clearly  drawn,  and  it  will  be  so  contrived  that 

[  194] 


THE  PLIGHT  OF  CRCESUS 


all  men  may  toe  it.  To  find  this  line  will  be  the 
next  great  prevailing  incentive,  a  project  involved 
in  Altruism,  the  dream  of  the  Future.  I  am  not 
endeavoring,  however,  to  solve  the  social  problem, 
in  the  little  trilogy  of  which  this  book  is  third,  but 
to  complete  a  true  record  of  one  who  tested  cer- 
tain ancient  dreams  and  precepts  for  himself.  And 
so  I  return  to  a  narrative  of  simple  things,  such 
things,  in  fact,  as  any  one  may  encompass  in  his 
life,  filling  it  with  significance  beyond  the  feverish 
successes  of  a  day,  with  delight  beyond  the  satis- 
faction of  personal  ambition  or  of  vanity. 


[195] 


^Il^^ 


CHAPTER    XII 


A   CALL  FROM   THE  WILD 


M~  ''J^             1)  i 

^M 

M 

EAR  little  Bobbie,"  said  Nancy, 
with  the  sidewise,  partly 
drooping  poise  of  the  head  that 
attends  reflection.  I  did  not 
answer  her,  but  continued  to 
gaze  from  the  window  over 
the  great  stretch  of  city  far  below  me. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a  November  day,  and  a 
dazzling  glint  flashed  from  innumerable  windows. 
Details  of  the  vast  picture  were  already  lost  in  the 
softening  shadows,  but  the  outlines  of  the  build- 
ings, the  ribbon  of  the  North  River,  and  the  Jer- 
sey hills  beyond  were  bold  and  clear  in  the  cold 
twilight.  At  this  hour  the  river  shone  with  a 
peculiar  lustre,  and  the  ferryboats  crossing  it,  the 
steamers  moving  imposingly  to  or  from  their  slips, 

[196] 


A  CALL   FROM  THE   WILD 


fr»»irirr.'.r|i 


and  the  few  small  craft  with  sails  spread,  stood 
out  distinctly.  We  were  in  Nancy's  copying  office. 
Her  girls  had  gone  home,  and  I  was  waiting  for 
her  to  finish  her  task.  She  worked  at  a  table  near 
the  window  and  glanced  out  continually,  watch- 
ing the  fading  light  from  the  city  and  the  increas- 
ing lustre  of  the  river.  The  same  memory  was 
ours  as  we  viewed  the  water.  We  had  gone  at 
once  to  work  upon  our  return  from  the  island, 
joining  in  the  rush  of  the  city  without  the  loss  of 
a  step ;  but  we  had  not  been  here  long  enough  yet 
to  lose  ourselves  in  its  thoughts,  its  movements 
and  its  feelings.  We  moved  with  the  throngs 
that  crossed  the  Brooklyn  bridge  twice  a  day ;  we 
struggled  in  the  stampede  for  the  cars  at  night; 
we  toiled  at  the  tasks  a  city  provides ;  but  we  were 
moving  like  people  in  a  mist. 

The  sea  was  still  sounding  in  our  ears.  We 
instinctively  noticed  the  direction  of  the  wind  and 
estimated  its  strength  and  stability.  We  woke 
with  a  start  to  find  Broadway  before  us  rather 
than  the  pathway  of  the  sound  where  it  leads  to 
the  ocean.  But  we  were  beginning  to  realize  the 
change  in  our  surroundings.  As  the  days  passed 
the  most  persistent  memory  was  of  the  night  of 

[  197  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


our  departure,  when  we  sailed  to  Noank  for  the 
last  time,  leaving  our  dog  behind. 

So  now,  when  Nancy  said  "Dear  little  Bob- 
bie," I  saw  him  as  he  stood  on  the  dock  of  our 
neighbor's  island,  disappearing  in  the  darkness, 
his  nose  pointed  to  the  stars,  his  mournful  howls 
growing  fainter  and  more  mellow  as  the  water 
between  us  widened. 

Bob  had  been  left  upon  Mystic  Island  with 
Gibbie  Wilcox,  because  we  knew  that  Scotch  col- 
lies were  not  meant  for  the  city.  Their  active 
intelligence  requires  something  to  do. 

I  had  seen  a  beautiful  collie  once  on  Fifth  ave- 
nue. His  coat  of  long  hair  was  like  silk,  and  to 
all  outward  appearance  he  was  a  perfect  dog;  but 
he  seemed  old  beyond  his  years,  and  as  he  walked 
quietly  by  his  master,  with  his  head  a  little  bent, 
he  watched  the  life  of  the  street  as  it  rushed  past 
him  with  swift  glances  from  suspicious  eyes.  This 
dog  was  duly  exercised  and  well  cared  for.  He 
had  been  taught  to  avoid  the  dangers  of  the  town, 
and  that  prompt  obedience  which  his  liberty  of 
the  street  required  of  him,  but  his  spirit  had  been 
subdued,  and  developed  into  one  of  protest,  of 
watchfulness  and  distrust.     Other  collies  I  had 

[198] 


A  CALL   FROM   THE   WILD 


^nW 


seen  in  town  were  either  pitifully  afraid,  or,  like 
him,  distrustful.  From  every  side  I  heard  men 
say,  "Collies  are  intelligent  and  they  are  hand- 
some dogs,  but  you  cannot  rely  on  them.  They 
are  treacherous." 

A  breeder  said  to  me,  "You  should  not  get  a 
collie  if  you  expect  to  keep  him  in  the  city.  Few 
of  them  can  stand  the  noise  and  confusion  and 
lack  of  exercise.  Those  that  survive  are  likely 
to  be  cowardly  or  mean." 

It  had  been  hard  to  part  with  Bob.  We  were 
afraid  that  he  would  forget  us,  for  he  was  only 
five  months  old  when  we  left  him  there. 

In  her  first  letter  to  us  Nora,  Gibbie's  wife,  had 
written,  "We  are  gathering  up  the  apples  now, 
and  of  course  Bob  must  help.  He  runs  for  them 
far  and  near  and  brings  them  to  the  basket.  He 
is  the  busiest  of  us  all.  But  this  afternoon  he 
suddenly  disappeared,  and  where  do  you  think 
we  found  him  ?  In  your  sharpie.  Gibbie  has  not 
taken  it  from  the  water  yet.  It  was  moored  to 
the  dock  where  you  left  it.  Bob  had  jumped  in 
and  was  sitting  gravely  in  the  stern  seat.  He 
looked  very  thoughtful." 

After  this  letter   my  memories  of  the  island 

[  199  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


3wtv%rur<'r.m\ 


were  less  insistent,  for  they  were  only  memories, 
and  the  present  was  at  hand.  Now  when  my 
thoughts  flew  up  the  sound  I  saw  Bob,  the  com- 
panion of  my  fine  September  days,  sitting  alone 
in  the  sharpie  we  had  sailed  together,  wondering 
in  his  dog's  heart  what  had  become  of  me,  with 
no  means  of  finding  out,  wistfully  waiting  for  the 
familiar  call. 

And  then  Nora  wrote  again  :  "You  must  send 
for  Bob.  Gibbie  is  afraid  he  will  be  sick.  He  goes 
off  alone  to  the  north  end  of  the  island  and  looks 
across  the  run  toward  your  cabin.  He  sits  for 
hours  at  a  time  in  the  sharpie  where  Gibbie  has 
hauled  it  on  the  beach." 

"What  shall  we  do?"  asked  Nancy,  with  a  sud- 
den brimming  of  the  eyes. 

"We  must  send  for  him,"  I  said.  "It  can't  be 
helped.  Bob  is  evidently  the  kind  that  don't  for- 
get.   He  might  die  up  there." 

"But  where  shall  we  keep  him  ?" 

That  was  a  serious  question,  and  I  could  not 
answer  it.  Nancy's  mother  had  told  us  more  than 
once  that  she  would  not  have  him  in  the  house. 
You  must  not  think  from  this  that  Nancy's  mother 
is  unkind,  for  she  is  one  of  the  tenderest-hearted 

[  200  ] 


A  CALL   FROM   THE   WILD 


women  in  the  world.  There  is  nothing  she  will 
not  undertake  and  patiently  and  lovingly  perform 
in  the  service  of  any  one  who  suffers.  She  would 
wash  with  her  own  hands  and  clothe  in  her  own 
garments  the  outcast  fallen  at  her  door. 

She  shut  Bob  out  because  she  had  had  dogs  and 
loved  them.  They  had  ruined  her  carpets  and 
torn  her  curtains  and  cried  at  night.  They  ruled 
and  tormented  her.  There  was  no  use  in  plea  or 
arguments. — she  would  not  have  him. 

"Of  course,"  said  I  to  Nancy,  "I  can  get  a  room 
somewhere  else  in  the  neighborhood  and  keep  him 
there." 

This  was  possible  as  a  last  resort,  but  neither  of 
us  liked  the  plan.  I  have  lived  half  my  natural 
life,  and  never  since  my  boyhood  until  then  had  I 
found  myself  settled  in  a  home  where  I  might  live 
peaceably  in  my  own  way,  and  where  the  other 
members  of  the  household  found  it  a  pleasure  to 
add  comfort  to  my  lot. 

Of  course,  I  would  have  foregone  this  and 
cheerfully  sought  a  new  shelter  among  strangers, 
enduring  the  wear  and  tear  that  may  be  expected 
on  such  a  pilgrimage,  if  any  necessity  arose,  and 
I  would  surely  have  done  it  for  the  sake  of  Bob. 

[201  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Tw^ 


"Perhaps,"  I  said,  ''when  Bob  once  gets  here 
and  she  sees  him,  she  will  relent.  He  is  such  a 
dear  little  fellow." 

Nancy  looked  grave.  "You  don't  know  how 
firm  mother  can  be  at  times." 

"We  must  send  for  him  anyhow,  and  do  what 
is  best  when  he  comes." 

We  felt  the  gravity  of  the  situation,  its  pathos 
and  humor  as  well,  and  took  hold  of  the  business 
in  hand  with  some  anxiety,  some  merriment  and  a 
great  deal  of  care.  The  picture  of  Bob  in  the 
sharpie,  waiting  patiently  with  his  memories  and 
dumb  longings,  was  with  us  also,  and  we  felt  its 
subduing  influence. 

We  consulted  the  express  agent  and  wrote  to 
Gibbie  telling  him  to  put  Bob  in  a  strong  box, 
with  slats  on  top,  and  ship  him  by  the  9 153 
train  on  Saturday  morning.  He  should  then 
reach  the  Grand  Central  Station  by  4 :30 
o'clock. 

"Are  you  sure,"  we  asked  the  agent,  "he  will  be 
sent  straight  through  ?" 

"He  probably  will,"  was  the  soft  reply.  "Such 
matter  usually  has  the  right  of  way,  as  we  don't 
like  to  have  live  stock  on  our  hands." 

[  202  ] 


A  CALL   FROM   THE   WILD 


As  we  left  him  we  looked  at  each  other  anx- 
iously. 

"I  hope,"  said  Nancy,  ''there  will  be  no  de- 
lay." 

"It  is  a  dangerous  thing,"  I  replied,  "to  send  a 
pup  by  express.  A  single  fright,  a  little  rough 
treatment  just  now  might  leave  its  taint  through 
life.  It  is  terrible  to  think  of  him  alone  for  hours 
in  all  that  noise  and  confusion  he  cannot  under- 
stand.   But  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

"We  had  better  not  tell  mother,  but  just  take 
him  home  on  trust,"  Nancy  said. 

When  the  letter  was  posted,  and  we  walked 
down  Broadway  towards  the  bridge  and  home, 
we  felt  somewhat  out  of  place  in  the  great  city 
with  our  island  memories  and  our  problem  of  a 
dog. 

If  we  were  to  shout  aloud  the  things  that  con- 
cerned us  then,  who  among  this  seething  multi- 
tude would  take  them  seriously?  Where  there 
are  banks  to  rob  and  franchises  to  steal,  where 
gleaming  prizes  multiply  with  every  race;  in  a 
city  of  palaces,  where  the  meanest  tenement  is  but 
an  hour  removed  from  Coney  Island — in  this 
great  wonderland  of  ambition,  of  malice,  of  toil 

[  203  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


and  delight — who  can  consider  the  grief  of  a  little, 
lone  dog? 

At  four  o'clock  Saturday  afternoon  Nancy  and 
I  were  at  the  Grand  Central  Station  waiting  for 
the  4 130  train,  on  which  Bob  should  be.  A  tele- 
gram from  Gibbie  announced  that  he  had  been 
shipped  that  morning.  That  November  was  a 
cold  and  windy  month,  and  that  Saturday  was 
one  of  its  worst  days.  A  biting  draught  swept 
through  the  open  depot  shed,  and  the  men  at 
the  gates  slapped  themselves  constantly  to  keep 
the  blood  going.  Their  breath  came  out  in 
clouds  of  frost.  Their  coat-collars  were  turned 
up,  their  cap  flaps  were  pulled  down,  their  noses 
and  cheeks,  exposed,  were  bitten  red  by  the 
weather. 

We  approached  one  of  these  sentinels,  walking 
with  hunched  shoulders,  and  flapping  arms  before 
the  gate. 

"On  what  track,"  I  asked,  "does  the  4  i^o  train 
from  New  London  enter  ?" 

"This  one,"  he  growled. 

He  was  so  forbidding  that  I  let  him  pass  up 
and  down  several  times  before  I  spoke  again. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  I  ventured,  "how  I  can  get 

[  204] 


A   CALL   FROM   THE   WILD 


^n^w^ 


a  dog  from  the  train  as  soon  as  he  comes  in  ?  He 
h  only  a  pup — a  Scotch  collie — and " 

"By  express?"  asked  the  gateman,  facing  me 
now  with  a  kindlier  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes — in  a  box." 

"You  will  have  to  get  him  from  the  express 
office.  It's  right  back  of  the  station  on  Forty- 
eighth  street.  Go  up  there  now  and  tell  them  to 
get  him  on  the  first  wagon  and  handle  him  care- 
fully.   They'll  do  that  for  you." 

We  turned  our  faces  to  the  wind,  and  pushing 
against  it,  with  heads  bent,  struggled  out  of  the 
shed,  along  Forty-second  street,  and  turned  up 
Lexington  avenue.  Now  the  wind  was  behind 
us,  and  we  leaned  backward,  holding  to  our  hats 
as  it  blew  us  along. 

We  found  the  express  depot  to  be  another  great 
shed,  open  on  both  sides.  There  was  no  shelter 
anywhere  from  wind  and  cold.  The  men  at  work 
needed  none,  for  every  moment  huge  covered 
wagons  came  rumbling  in  to  be  loaded  and  un- 
loaded. We  watched  the  men  wrestling  with  bar- 
rels and  boxes  until  the  sweat  moistened  their 
faces,  and  envied  them.  Our  feet  were  sore  with 
the  cold,  our  hands  stung,  our  cheeks  ached,  our 

[205] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


clothes  had  ceased  to  protect  us.  We  might  as 
well  have  stood  there  naked  in  the  wind. 

We  told  the  foreman  of  our  errand.  He  was  a 
tall,  powerful  Irishman,  with  a  clean-shaven  face, 
strong  and  kindly.  He  smiled  at  Nancy,  shaking 
and  chattel  ing  beside  me,  and  told  us  to  run  up 
and  down  and  get  warm. 

"The  dog,"  he  said,  "will  be  brought  up 
here  at  once.  I  will  see  to  that.  The  first 
wagon  from  the  4 130  won't  arrive  until  ten 
minutes  after  five.  Go  on,  now,  and  run  up  and 
down." 

We  turned  and  walked  briskly  to  the  end  of  the 
wide  platform. 

"I  can't  run  here,"  said  Nancy,  "with  everyone 
looking." 

"And  so,"  I  said,  "we  become  staid  and  formal. 
We  are  held  by  invisible  leashes.  Every  eye  turn- 
ed our  way  lassoes  us.  Why  do'  we  make  captives 
of  one  another?  It  is  not  enough  to  live  inno- 
cently, to  harm  no  one.  In  the  smallest  way  we 
may  not  be  simple,  impulsive  and  free.  The  prob- 
lem we  shall  face  with  Bob  does  not  differ  from 
our  own.  The  moment  he  arrives  the  city  will 
seek  to  grind  him  into  its  grist,  limiting  his  lib- 

[  206  ] 


A  CALL   FROM   THE   WILD 


:,|r»»iri'r:rT» 


erty,   subduing  his  spirit,  until  he  becomes   the 
watchful,  world-wise  creature  of  the  town." 

Nancy  looked  up  at  me  with  an  expression  of 
distress,  but  she  was  too  cold  to  talk  about  it. 

''Let  us  walk  faster,"  I  said,  taking  her  hand, 
**or,  here,  I'll  warm  you."  I  turned  her  about  and 
slapped  her  back  smartly,  until  she  jumped  away 
from  my  blows. 

"We  might  as  well  run,"  she  said.  "Those  men 
are  laughing  at  us." 

"All  right ;  they  have  done  their  worst.  Let 
us  run."  We  started  off  at  a  trot  and  did  not  stop 
until  we  were  breathless. 

At  a  quarter  past  five  the  big  foreman  came  to 
us  with  a  long  face.  "There  is  no  dog  on  the 
train,"  he  sarid. 

"No  dog!"  we  exclaimed.   "How  can  that  be?" 

"You  know  it  was  shipped?" 

"He  left  Noank  at  9:53  this  morning."  We 
showed  him  the  telegram. 

"Well,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "he  may  have 
been  laid  off  at  New  London  or  at  New  Haven. 
If  that  is  the  case  he  may  come  on  'most  any 
train." 

"How  often  do  they  come?" 

[207] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Ww 


"Almost  every  hour  until  midnight.  The  next 
one  is  due  now,  and  the  first  wagon  from  that 
gets  here  at  six." 

And  so  we  waited  until  six.  He  did  not  come. 
We  watched  every  wagon  that  entered,  looked  at 
every  box  thrown  off,  and  forgot  the  wind  and 
cold  somewhat  in  our  anxiety. 

At  seven  o'clock  we  heard  a  voice  from  some- 
where in  the  darkness  outside  call  out,  "No  dog 
on  No.  40."  He  was  an  express  messenger  from 
the  station  who  had  walked  up  the  tracks,  bound 
home  for  dinner.    We  now  had  two  hours  to  wait. 

"We  will  have  time,"  I  said,  "to  get  warm  and 
eat." 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible,"  said  Nancy,  as  we 
made  ourselves  comfortable  in  a  warm  restaurant 
on  Forty-second  street,  "that  they  could  deliber- 
ately put  a  dog  to  one  side  and  hold  him  back 
this  way.  They  must  see  that  he  is  a  gentle  little 
fellow.  I  can't  understand  how  they  can  bear  to 
see  him  cooped  up  in  his  box  and  left  to  pine  and 
worry.     How  can  they  do  it?" 

When  we  went  out  again  upon  our  quest  we 
stopped  at  the  depot.  If  we  could  only  get  per- 
mission to  go  through  the  gate  and  meet  the  in- 

[208] 


A   CALL   FROM   THE   WILD 


^,|y|w 


coming  trains,  just  to  inquire  at  the  express  car  if 
the  dog  were  there,  it  would  save  us  nearly  an 
hour  of  uncertainty.  As  we  passed  under  the 
shed  a  gruff  voice  inquired,  "Did  Bob  come  yet  ?" 
We  turned  and  saw  only  the  towering  hulk  of  a 
policeman. 

"No,"  I  answered;  "we  are  still  waiting  for 
him." 

"It's  a  damn  shame,"  he  said,  "to  hold  a  dog 
up  like  that." 

A  few  steps  further  on  we  heard  another 
voice  calling  and  saw  to  our  right  the  agent  of 
Westcott's  Express  leaning  over  the  counter 
toward  us. 

"Are  you  the  folks  looking  for  a  dog?" 

"Yes ;  has  he  come  ?" 

We  hurried  over  to  him, 

"He  wasn't  on  the  local  just  in  from  New 
Haven.  It  don't  carry  an  express  car,  but  I 
thought  they  might  have  put  him  aboard.  But  he 
wasn't  there.  They  oughtn't  to  hold  a  dog  up  that 
way." 

"When  does  the  next  express  car  come  in?" 

He  glanced  up  at  the  clock  in  the  apex  of  the 
shed. 

[209] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


>^>:*«irvri'r'|i 


'In  fifteen  minutes.     He  ought  to  be  on  that, 


sure." 


"I  wonder  if  we  could  meet  it  when  it  comes 
in  and  ask?" 

"I'll  find  out  for  you,  if  you  want,  but  the  gate- 
man'll  let  you  through." 

"He  cut  us  pretty  short  before." 

"Hey,  there,  Charley!"  he  called.  "Here  are 
the  folks  for  the  dog." 

The  gateman  beckoned  to  us,  and  when  we  ap- 
proached, said  amiably  :  "Wait  here  till  the  train 
comes.  When  the  passengers  get  through  you  can 
go  in  and  ask." 

"What  do  you  suppose  has  become  of  him?" 
asked  Nancy. 

"Laid  him  off  at  New  Haven." 

"I  can't  understand  why  they  should  do  that?" 

"You  never  can  tell,"  said  the  man,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  astute  scorn,  "what  some  folks  will 
do." 

A  little  old  man,  very  thin  and  active,  came  out 
of  the  darkness  of  the  tracks  and  stood  near  the 
iron  fence  on  the  other  side. 

"Waiting  for  Bob?"  he  asked.  "I'm  the  ex- 
press agent.     There's  a  couple  of  our  cars  over 

[  210] 


A   CALL  FROM   THE  WILD 


there  'tain't  been  emptied  yet.  I  just  went  through 
'em  to  see  for  sure  't  he  weren't  overlooked." 

"Where  do  you  suppose  he  is?"  asked  Nancy, 
pressing  against  the  fence  near  him. 

"New  Haven.  They  throw  off  most  of  the  ex- 
press there,  and  reship  it." 

"They  wouldn't  throw  a  box  with  a  dog  in  it, 
would  they?" 

"They're  supposed  to  ship  live  stock  straight 
through,  and  to  handle  it  carefully;  but  you  can't 
always  tell.  They  don't  have  much  time  to  con- 
sider." 

The  last  train  came  at  midnight,  and  both  the 
gateman  and  express  agent  went  with  us  to  the 
car.  It  was  a  solemn,  anxious  company.  I  know 
that  my  own  pulse  was  suspended. 

"Got  a  dog  in  there?"  asked  the  agent,  peering 
through  the  door. 

"No  dog,"  came  the  reply. 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  the  gateman  over  his 
shoulder.    "Are  you  sure?"  repeated  the  agent. 

"Nope;  there  ain't  no  dog  here." 

"Mercy !"  said  Nancy,  in  something  like  a  gasp. 
"What  shall  we  do?" 

"There  is  no  other  train  to-night  ?"  I  asked. 

[211] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"The  next  one  gets  here  about  seven  in  the 
morning.     He  will  surely  be  on  that." 

"But  just  think  of  him  shut  up  in  that  box  all 
day  and  all  night  without  food  or  water.  It's 
enough  to  ruin  him." 

"I  suppose  they'll  feed  him  and  give  him  a 
drink,"  said  the  gateman,  and  the  agent  replied 
that  they  ought  to. 

We  could  do  nothing  more  but  go  home  and 
return  in  the  morning.  We  said  good-night  to 
our  friends,  heard  a  last  sympathetic  oath  from 
the  policeman  at  the  entrance,  climbed  the  elevated 
steps  and  began  our  long  night  journey  to  Macon 
street,  in  Brooklyn. 

"Shall  we  tell  your  mother?"  I  asked. 

"No,  no,"  said  Nancy,  anxiously.  "Not  a  word 
about  him  yet.  She  will  forbid  our  bringing  him 
at  all.  She  will  be  afraid  if  he  once  gets  in  he  will 
stay.    I  know  her." 

"But  she  will  ask  what  kept  you  so  late.  She 
always  does,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  I  must  lie  then,"  she  said  pleasantly. 

"What  will  you  say — that  you  had  to  work?" 

"No.  I  never  tell  her  that  unless  it's  so.  I 
have  to  lie  sometimes,  but  never  in  a  serious  thing, 

[  212  ] 


A   CALL  FROM   THE   WILD 


vrfvirirriTB 


and  I  discriminate.  I  always  feel  badly  about  it 
anyhow.  It  would  be  such  a  delight  to  always 
tell  the  truth.  But  I  manage  to  keep  my  con- 
science easy  by  coming  as  close  to  the  truth  as  I 
can  and  avoid  unpleasant  conflicts.  I  could  not 
tell  her  I  remained  to  work  when  I  did  not.  There 
is  a  virtue  in  labor,  and  when  I  have  been  doing 
something  that  she  might  not  approve,  I  cannot 
shield  myself  behind  my  work — a  thing  she  re- 
spects and  usually  yields  to,  and  that  reflects  credit 
on  me  in  her  eyes.  It  is  not  credit  I  am  seeking, 
but  just  escape  from  trouble.  Now  I  am  willing 
to  tell  her  that  I  have  been  off  on  a  junket.  Any 
objection  she  may  have  to  that  will  not  be  serious. 
She  believes  in  pleasure  for  me  and  will  not  really 
mind.  So  I  will  tell  her  we  went  to  the  show.  It's 
the  dog  I  don't  want  her  to  know  about,  not  the 
way  I  spent  the  evening.    Do  you  see?" 

"You  make  it  very  clear,"  I  said. 

"And  am  I  right?" 

"Of  course." 

"We  can't  help  lying  to  our  mothers,  can  we  ?" 

"Not  always.  It  is  impossible  for  parents  and 
their  children  to  conform  altogether  to  each  other's 
ways  and  wishes.     They  live  together,  but  are 

[213] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


creatures  of  differing  times  and  customs.  We 
should  be  absolutely  honest  and  truthful  with  our 
contemporaries,  but  with  the  passing  generation 
we  should  be  simply  considerate,  adroit,  if  need 
be,  and  always  kind.  It  is  better  to  lie  to  them 
for  the  sake  of  peace  and  pleasantness  than  to 
argue  and  contend.  They  are  through  with  effort. 
It  is  different  with  the  people  of  our  own  genera- 
tion. They  are  entitled  to  the  truth  of  us  to  make 
what  use  of  it  they  can." 

When  we  spoke  of  Bob  again  it  was  to  assure 
each  other  that  he  would  be  fed  and  cared  for  on 
the  way. 

"We  have  found,"  I  said,  "that  even  in  a  cold 
and  dreary  place  like  the  express  office  or  the  sta- 
tion the  thought  of  a  dog  can  make  men  kind." 

As  I  thought  it  over  it  occurred  to  me  that 
there  could  be  no  better  test  of  a  city's  virtue  than 
its  treatment  of  a  dog  like  Bob.  It  would  at  least 
reveal  the  attitude  of  men  towards  all  that  is  joy- 
ous, gentle  and  affectionate  moving  among  them 
without  protection  of  the  law. 


[214] 


^K^ 


CHAPTER   XIII 


THE   CITY   AND   THE  DOG 


HERE  was  no  wind  next  day. 
The  cold  of  November  was 
tempered  by  a  flood  of  sun- 
light. We  reached  the  express 
depot  in  comfort  and  found  it 
very  quiet.  The  few  necessary 
deliveries  had  been  made.  A  long  row  of  wagons 
were  backed  against  the  wall,  their  tongues  upon 
the  ground.  A  corpulent  watchman,  in  the  centre 
of  the  great  platform,  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair, 
reading  a  Sunday  paper.  As  we  approached  him 
eagerly  he  divined  our  errand,  and,  pointing  to- 
wards a  large  box  near  him,  said : 
"There  he  is." 

We  saw  Bob  leaning  against  the  corner  of  his 
prison,  his  head  drooping  on  his  breast.    The  voice 

[215] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^rttnttTiT-m 


of  the  watchman  did  not  affect  him.     His  eyes 
were  half  closed.    He  looked  very  limp  and  weary. 

"It's  the  boy,"  I  answered  joyfully.  At  the 
first  sound  of  my  voice  Bob  jumped  to  his  feet, 
with  head  up  and  ears  pricked  alertly.  The  watch- 
man seized  a  hatchet  and  gave  two  of  the  slats 
such  proper  blows  under  their  overhanging  ends 
that  they  went  flying  into  the  air.  With  them 
came  Bob  as  if  shot  from  a  mortar.  He  fell  head- 
long to  the  floor,  leaped  up  again,  and  came  bound- 
ing to  us  with  choking  yelps  of  delight.  His  eyes 
gleamed,  every  inch  of  his  body  was  in  motion. 
He  crouched  at  our  feet,  leaped  to  our  faces,  back- 
ed away  from  us,  ran  in  wide  circles,  his  tail 
thrashing  the  air,  his  voice  raised  in  a  prolonged 
outcry.  As  we  moved  at  last  towards  the  door  he 
ran  constantly  back  and  forth  in  front  of  us.  He 
was  conscious  only  of  our  presence  and  that  he 
was  free  and  with  his  own  again.  There  was  a 
faucet  by  the  wall  and  a  pail  under  it.  I  filled  this 
with  water  and  stood  near  while  he  drank.  He 
kept  his  eye  rolled  up  at  me  and  lapped  uneasily. 
Thirsty  as  he  was,  he  would  have  left  the  pail  at 
my  first  step  from  him. 

"Take  it  easy,"  I  said  quietly.    "We  will  wait 

[216] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


for  you.''    He  moved  his  tail  in  answer,  took  a  few 
more  laps  and  looked  around  at  Nancy. 

"Let  us  stand  closer,"  she  said.  "He  must  be 
thirsty." 

We  moved  to  the  pail  and  Nancy  knelt  by  his 
head.  He  thrust  his  wet  nose  into  her  face,  gave 
her  cheek  one  swift  lick,  and  settled  to  his  work 
contentedly. 

"He  seems  to  be  all  right,"  murmured  Nancy, 
putting  her  hand  on  his  back.  He  lifted  his  head, 
gave  her  cheek  another  lap  and  returned  to  the 
water. 

After  his  drink  Bob  was  more  subdued.  His 
joy  at  seeing  us  had  at  first  closed  his  senses  to  all 
other  sounds,  but  now,  as  we  came  to  the  great 
doorway  leading  to  the  street,  the  thundering  rat- 
tle of  heavy  wagons  on  the  stones  fell  upon  him 
like  a  rain  of  blows. 

He  stopped  suddenly,  dropped  his  tail,  lifted  his 
head  and  shot  quick,  nervous  glances  over  the 
noisy  world.  In  my  sympathy  with  him  I  was 
made  conscious  again  of  a  multitude  of  sounds, 
which  long  since  had  been  lost  to  me  in  the  silence 
of  familiarity.  I  heard  in  the  monotonous,  far- 
spreading  rumble  the  shouts  of  drivers,  the  shrill 

[217] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Ww 


call  of  children,  the  sharp  beating  of  horse-shoes, 
the  clang  of  gongs,  the  crash  of  heavy  boxes  as 
they  fell  from  wagons  to  the  walk,  the  swelling 
and  screeching  rush  of  elevated  trains  and  surface 
cars,  the  puffing  of  engines,  the  melody  of  a 
hurdy-gurdy  a  block  away,  the  voices  of  the  "I- 
cash-clothes"  man  and  the  street  venders  as  they 
intoned  their  peculiar  cries. 

Bob  listened  and  looked  for  a  moment  with  in- 
tense attention,  turning  his  head  this  way  and 
that,  glancing,  starting,  pricking  his  ears  to  each 
new  sound.  He  was  trying  to  distinguish,  to 
locate,  to  understand.  But  in  this  vast  uproar  he 
could  make  out  nothing — things  moved  so  swiftly, 
one  sound  followed  and  interrupted  another  with 
such  rapidity.  Confusion  overcame  him.  He  laid 
his  ears  back,  closing  them  to  keep  out  this  end- 
less din.  He  dodged  into  a  doorway,  and,  sitting 
on  his  haunches,  began  to  tremble  violently.  I 
called  to  him,  but  he  did  not  hear  me.  My  voice, 
which  had  always  before  brought  an  instant  re- 
sponse, was  now  lost  in  a  multitude  of  sounds.  To 
one  of  his  peculiarly  keen  sense  of  hearing  these 
noises  must  have  been  terrible. 

"Is  he  afraid?"  asked  Nancy  in  great  distress. 

[218] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


JjUiil 


I  observed  him  closely  and  learned  that  it  was 
not  fear. 

"He  is  simply  bewildered  and  nerve-racked,"  I 
said.  "We  must  be  gentle  with  him  now."  I 
picked  him  up  and  carried  him  to  a  car.  As  we 
stepped  on  the  platform  the  conductor  stopped  me. 

"We  are  supposed  to  carry  lap-dogs,"  said  he, 
"but  you've  got  a  bear."  I  begged  him  to  let  us 
on.  "He  is  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,"  I  said.  "See 
how  he  trembles." 

He  put  us  off  and  rang  the  bell  savagely.  He 
looked  like  a  man  who  would  beat  his  wife  and 
send  his  children  to  bed  hungry.  The  next  car 
took  us  on,  and  the  conductor,  a  rosy,  round- 
cheeked  fellow,  looked  on  Bob  with  affection. 

"He  is  a  beauty,"  said  he.  "Looks  like  a  fox, 
don't  he?" 

Whenever  this  conductor  passed  us  as  he  was 
collecting  fares  he  patted  Bob's  head,  and  his 
genial  round  face  was  moved  with  sympathy. 

As  we  neared  the  Brooklyn  bridge  Nancy  be- 
came restless,  and  I  saw  in  her  eyes  the  hovering 
shadow  that  told  of  gathering  uncertainty  and 
alarm. 

"And  what's  the  trouble  now?"  I  asked. 

[219] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"Do  dogs  like  livery  stables?" 
"When  they  are  used  to  them  they  do." 
"There  is  one  on  Halsey  street,  not  far  from 


us." 


"You  are  afraid  to  take  Bob  home?"  I  said  in 
some  disgust. 

"I  am  not,"  she  declared  emphatically,  turning 
her  eyes  full  upon  me.  They  were  very  bright, 
shining  with  simulated  surprise  and  the  most  gen- 
uine alarm. 

"Mother  might  not  let  him  in,"  she  said  plain- 
tively. "It  would  be  better,  I  guess,  to  tell  her  all 
about  it  first.  Can't  we  leave  him  in  the  stable  for 
a  little  while?" 

"It  would  be  better,"  I  said,  "to  take  him  to 
your  office.  We  could  go  there  now  and  spend  the 
day  with  him." 

Bob  lay  very  still,  his  head  upon  my  knee,  but 
his  glances  shot  apprehensively  toward  every  mov- 
ing thing.  When  the  conductor  rang  the  bell  he 
would  start  and  lift  his  head  quickly. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said,  "but  the  office  may  be 
the  best  place  to  keep  him.  It  is  so  high  above  the 
city  that  he  can  get  used  to  its  roar  and  rumble 
little  by  little." 

[  220  ] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


^nW 


"Perhaps  we  can't  keep  him  there." 
"Why  not?" 

"They  don't  allow  dogs  in  some  of  the  buildings 
at  all,  and  I  doubt  if  they  would  let  one  live  in 


ours." 


"I  think  we  can  trust  the  superintendent  for 
that,"  I  said.  "When  he  was  at  the  island  Bob 
slept  between  us  on  the  floor,  and  I  know  Horton 
was  fond  of  him.  A  big-hearted,  generous  fellow 
like  Horton  would  do  as  much  for  Bob  as  for  you 
or  me,  and  more,  for  Bob  is  helpless." 

We  left  the  car  on  Chambers  street.  I  put  Bob 
on  the  sidewalk,  and  he  scurried  at  once  to  the 
nearest  doorway.  His  tail  was  down,  but  it  was 
not  between  his  legs.  He  threw  himself  on  his 
haunches  in  a  corner,  and  from  this  comparative 
shelter  looked  alertly  out  upon  the  world. 

"Good  boy,"  I  called  to  him  quietly.  "Take  a 
good  look.    It's  all  right,  Bobbie.    You're  all  right 


now." 


He  answered  me  with  a  nervous  yelp  and  an 
affectionate  duck  of  the  head.  A  wagon  rattled 
by,  a  car  rushed  up  and  passed  with  clanging 
gong,  a  thousand  noises  from  far  and  near  assail- 
ed him.    We  walked  slowly  past,  calling  him  to 

[221  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"iUm 


follow.  He  watched  us  with  troubled  eyes.  He 
barked  sharply  and  made  little  lunges  from  his 
corner,  but  we  were  some  distance  up  the  street 
before  he  came.  It  was  with  a  rush  at  last,  and 
when  he  reached  us,  barking  reproachfully,  I  took 
him  up  and  carried  him.  He  had  followed,  and 
that  was  enough  for  now. 

We  found  the  superintendent  in  his  office,  going 
over  his  accounts,  the  usual  morning  job. 

"Here,  Horton,"  I  said,  "is  a  friend  of 
yours." 

Horton  weighs  250  pounds  and  is  tall  in  propor- 
tion. He  is  a  child's  ideal  of  a  giant.  At  first 
glance  he  is  a  formidable-looking  man,  square- 
jawed  and  swarthy,  with  lowering  sombre  eyes, 
deep  set  under  heavy  eyebrows.  He  is  as  strong 
as  he  is  big.  His  fists  are  like  sledge  hammers, 
and  he  has  been  known  to  do  some  terrible  pound- 
ing with  them.  When  he  saw  Bob  the  aspect  of 
his  face  changed.  It  grew  a  shade  lighter.  He 
beamed  in  boyish  pleasure  and  took  the  half- 
grown  collie,  a  clumsy  armful  for  me,  to  his  heart 
as  he  would  a  kitten. 

"You  oughtn't  have  brought  him  to  town,"  he 
said;  "it's  no  place  for  him." 

[  222  ] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


>.frffirirr<T-p 


"Gibbie  told  me  I  must.  He  was  grieving  him- 
self sick." 

"Of  course,  he  would.  He  is  a  good  boy,  is 
Bobbie." 

"We  want  to  keep  him  in  the  office,"  said 
Nancy,  and  the  superintendent  nodded  approv- 
ingly. Perhaps  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he 
could  have  prevented  such  a  thing.  If  not,  so 
much  the  more  praise  to  him.  For  he  could  have 
done  this,  and  I  know  of  no  surer  sign  of  virtue 
than  to  be  unconscious  of  our  opportunities  for 
meanness,  to  have  the  power  to  oppress  and  to  for- 
get that  we  have  it. 

The  watchman  took  us  up  in  the  elevator.  We 
entered  the  office  and  shut  the  door.  I  put  Bob 
on  a  rug,  and  we  made  ourselves  comfortable  with 
our  chairs  where  he  could  see  us  both  without 
moving.  It  was  very  quiet  in  there  and  very 
homelike,  for,  in  spite  of  the  roll-top  desk  and  the 
five  typewriters,  it  seemed  more  like  a  two-room 
flat  where  a  very  cheery  and  domestic  woman 
lived.  Bob  looked  at  us  for  a  few  moments  anx- 
iously, then  more  serenely.  His  head  began  to 
droop.  Nancy  took  a  book  from  the  table,  "Pan 
Michael,"  a-nd,  turning  to  the  place  where  we  had 

[223] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Ww^ 


left  the  story,  began  to  read  aloud.  Bob  dropped 
his  head  on  his  paws  with  a  great  sigh.  He  slept 
long  and  soundly.  We  spent  the  day  with  our 
book,  reading,  dreaming,  speaking  at  long  inter- 
vals of  the  lost  Poland  and  of  the  living  city 
below  us. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  Bob  awoke,  he 
found  a  basin  of  bread  and  milk.  He  ate  it  greed- 
ily and  went  with  us  for  a  walk  on  the  roof. 

Again  in  the  office,  he  seemed  to  realize  that  so 
much  quiet  comfort  could  not  last.  He  watched 
us  closely,  and  as  we  made  ready  to  go  ran  franti- 
cally from  one  to  the  other,  protesting  loudly. 

"Now,  Bob,"  I  said,  "be  quiet.  Lie  down  there, 
and  be  quiet.  This  is  your  home.  You  will  sleep, 
and  in  the  morning  you  will  see  us  again.  You  are 
to  stay  here  with  Nancy,  and  every  day  I  will  take 
you  for  a  journey  into  the  world." 

As  I  talked  he  became  quiet.  He  watched  us 
go  out  reproachfully,  and  when  the  door  was 
closed  we  heard  a  mournful  cry.  We  listened  a 
long  time,  but  that  was  all.  Poor  Bob;  his  first 
great  lesson  in  life  was  that  of  resignation  to  its 
mysterious  ways,  and  he  had  learned  it  well. 

Bob  and  I  spent  the  next  day  together  upon  the 

[  224] 


r 

o 
o 
J- 

5' 
at) 

a. 

o 

3 


?^ 


O 

a,   O 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


roof.  This  was  fourteen  stories  above  the  street 
and  the  sounds  of  the  city  came  up  to  us  in  pleas- 
ant confusion.  Bob,  as  eager  for  a  game  as  any 
healthy  child,  ran  for  a  stick,  played  hide  and  seek 
and  tag  and  pom,  pom,  pullaway,  and  the  sounds 
of  our  hilarity  brought  Nancy  and  her  girls  and 
the  superintendent  of  the  building  and  some  of  the 
tenants.  There  was  a  gray-haired  contractor  who 
left  an  estimate  he  had  been  toiling  over  for  weeks, 
involving  millions,  and  a  lawyer  who  for  the  first 
time  in  fifteen  years  permitted  a  pleasure  to  in- 
terrupt the  preparation  of  a  brief.  We  roared  with 
laughter  to  see  the  gigantic  superintendent  sprint- 
ing across  the  roof  with  Bob  clinging  tO'  his  coat 
tails.  It  was  the  aged  contractor  who  suggested 
Ring  Around  the  Rosy,  but,  alas !  we  had  all  for- 
gotten how  the  thing  was  done. 

By  degrees,  I  induced  Bob  to  stand  by  the  edge 
of  the  roof  and  peer  through  the  loopholes  upon 
the  swarming,  noisy  street  below.  From  here  he 
saw  the  cars  pass  by  in  endless  succession,  heard 
the  gongs  and  bells,  the  shouts  of  drivers,  the  clat- 
ter of  hoofs  and  wheels  and  the  roar  of  voices, 
and,  by  degrees,  his  alarm  changed  to  fascina- 
tion.   Then  we  rode  up  and  down  in  the  elevators 

[227  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


ir»*irirr  T. 


until  he  ran  in  and  out  before  me  and  no  longer 
crowded  against  my  leg  with  his  ears  folded  back. 
It  was  not  long  after  this  before  he  learned  what 
floor  he  lived  on,  remaining  quietly  in  one  corner, 
out  of  the  way  of  careless  feet,  until  his  floor  was 
reached. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  building  was  a  huge  re- 
volving door — an  air-tight  turnstile,  with  four 
compartments.  To  pass  in  or  out,  you  stepped 
into  one  of  these  as  the  door  revolved.  Bob  watch- 
ed this  manoeuvre  with  anxious  eye.  I  waited 
until  no  one  was  passing  through  and  the  door  was 
motionless,  then  pushing  it  gently  I  stepped  be- 
tween two  of  the  blades  and  called  Bob  to  me.  He 
was  trembling  with  excitement  and  apprehension, 
but  he  came.  In  a  moment  we  were  upon  the  side- 
walk, in  the  midst  of  the  tramp  and  shuffle  of  a 
thousand  feet.  Bob  backed  away  from  the  din 
and  movement  until  his  haunches  hit  the  build- 
ing. He  cast  a  swift  glance  behind  him,  saw  a 
corner  and  darted  into  it.  There  he  sat,  his  ears 
folded  back,  the  sweat  dripping  from  his  mouth. 
I  walked  back  and  forth  and  watched  for  the 
glance  of  recognition  he  would  presently  give  me. 
When  it  came  I  spoke  to  him.     He  stood  up  a 

[228  ] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


moment,  whimpered,  gave  his  tail  a  nervous  wave 
and  dropped  back  into  his  comer.  A  Httle  later 
he  darted  to  me  and  thrust  his  nose  into  my  hand. 

"Go  back  to  your  corner,"  I  said.  He  obeyed, 
and  the  habit  of  obedience,  the  sense  of  confidence, 
was  restored.  I  stood  before  him,  shielding  him 
from  the  confusing  sights.  Presently  he  thrust 
his  head  between  my  legs  that  he  might  see.  There 
was  a  saner  observation  in  his  eyes,  and  when  I 
spoke  he  looked  up  at  me.  I  walked  away  and  he 
followed.  We  turned  the  corner  and  walked  east 
on  Duane  street  for  half  a  block.  It  was  quieter 
here,  and  once  or  twice  he  ran  a  little  ahead,  his 
ears  pricked,  his  tail  waving  like  a  plume.  Sud- 
denly he  stopped,  uttering  a  short  bark  of  surprise 
and  delight.  A  cat  was  dozing  on  a  doorsill.  He 
pranced  toward  her  in  friendly  overture.  The  cat, 
surprised  and  all  abristle,  leaped  past  him  and 
scurried  across  the  street.  Bob  gave  a  joyful  pur- 
suit. Of  course,  I  called  him  ofi,  but  the  street 
had  lost  its  terror.  For  the  time  being  it  was  alive 
with  only  an  infinite  possibility  of  cat. 

After  this  it  was  not  necessary  for  me  to  spend 
the  day  with  Bob.  He  roamed  about  the  roof  alone 
or  remained  in  Nancy's  office  while  I  was  about 

[  229  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


'I'll""* 


my  business  for  the  Evening  Post.  As  the  girls 
were  seated  at  their  typewriters,  their  skirts  trail- 
ed upon  the  floor  at  one  side  of  the  chairs,  Bob 
would  select  one  of  these,  and,  spreading  it  a 
little,  make  for  himself  a  friendly  bed  and  sleep. 

But  the  few  days  I  had  devoted  entirely  to  him 
were  not  wasted,  even  from  a  practical  standpoint. 
I  made  good  my  absence  to  the  Post  by  writing 
the  experiences  that  caused  it.  Mr.  Morgan,  no 
doubt,  made  more  money  during  those  days,  but  I 
made  my  living,  and  when  living  brings  delight, 
what  more  is  there  to  wish  for  ? 

After  three  in  the  afternoon  I  w^as  free  to  go 
where  I  chose,  usually  finding  in  my  wanderings 
some  subject  acceptable  to  the  Post  and  interest- 
ing to  me.  As  time  passed,  Bob  became  my  com- 
panion on  longer  and  longer  journeys.  I  first 
taught  him  to  walk  alone  on  the  sidewalk  while  I 
walked  in  the  street.  If  he  started  to  join  me  I 
said,  "Keep  to  the  sidewalk,"  repeating  this  over 
and  over  until  he  understood  just  what  it  meant. 
Then  I  boarded  a  passing  car  and  stood  on  the 
rear  platform.  When  he  saw  me  moving  rapidly 
away  he  stopped  short,  his  head  erect,  surprise 
and  alarm  bristlins:  in  his  alert  attitude.    Then  he 

[  230] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


>^r>«<rirFt<r''|| 


dashed  into  the  street,  unconscious  of  the  dangers 
he  just  escaped,  and  overtook  the  car.  I  leaned 
over  the  rail  and,  looking  steadily  into  his  excited 
eyes,  said  quietly,  "Keep  to  the  sidewalk.''  Crest- 
fallen, he  returned  and  stood  still,  watching  me. 
Then,  unmindful  of  the  hundreds  who  might  hear, 
I  called  aloud  to  him  to  come  on  and  keep  to  the 
sidewalk.  He  thought  he  caught  the  idea,  but. 
not  quite  sure,  he  moved  hesitatingly,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  me  anxiously.  The  cars  move  slowly  on 
lower  Broadway  because  of  the  constant  interfer- 
ence of  traffic,  and  I  could  still  direct  him  easily. 
Approval  or  disapproval  is  conveyed  to  all  forms 
of  life  by  the  same  most  elemental  methods.  If 
you  understand  a  dog  or  a  man,  they  will  under- 
stand you,  if  you  are  direct  and  honest  in  your 
expressions.  If  you  neither  understand  yourself 
nor  another,  you  are  likely  to  be  misunderstood. 
Bob  was  doing  the  proper  thing,  and  I  told  him  so. 
"That's  right,"  I  called  genially.  "Come  on  and 
keep  to  the  sidewalk."  He  moved  with  more  as- 
surance. "That's  right,"  I  said  again,  and  from 
that  time  he  has  known  exactly  what  "That's 
right"  means. 

Bob  would  have  had  no  more  trouble  in  follow- 

[  231  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


ing  me  about  the  city  if  the  people  on  the  walks 
had  left  him  alone.  Some  of  them  I  could  sympa- 
thize with — those  who  were  surprised,  by  the  sud- 
den effect  of  his  joyousness  and  beauty,  into  reach- 
ing out  to  seize  and  caress  him  for  a  moment. 
But  there  was  now  and  then  one  who  was  so  com- 
pletely a  puppet  of  his  own  desires  that  he  could 
observe  nothing,  and  seeing  this  handsome  crea- 
ture approaching,  would  waylay  him  and  attempt 
to  make  good  the  capture,  delightfully  excited  by 
the  thought  that  he  had  chanced  upon  a  stray  dog. 
Arrived  to  Bob's  rescue,  I  would  say : 

"Why  did  you  stop  him?" 

"Oh,  is  he  yours?  Excuse  me,  I  thought  he 
was  lost." 

"Can't  you  tell  the  difference  between  a  stray 
dog  and  a  dog  that  is  running  on  some  purpose  of 
his  own  ?" 

This  question  was  usually  taken  as  an  insult, 
and  Bob  and  I  were  permitted  to  proceed  without 
comment  from  the  nuisance  who  had  mistaken  an 
impulse  to  blind  greed  for  one  of  benevolence. 

In  the  end  I  found  it  safer  to  allow  him  to  fol- 
low behind  the  car.  This  was  a  delight  to  him, 
and  the  problem  of  his  proper  exercise  was  solved. 

[  232  ] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


^^^ 


Sunday  morning  Nancy  and  I  mounted  our 
wheels  and  rode  to  the  office  for  Bob.  There  was 
Httle  traffic  on  the  streets,  and  he  readily  accepted 
this  new  form  of  sport,  following  us  or  running 
in  advance  as  we  crossed  the  bridge  again  to 
Brooklyn.  We  wheeled  to  Bedford  avenue,  to  the 
Boulevard,  entered  Prospect  Park  and  spent  the 
day  there,  checking  our  wheels  and  wandering 
over  the  meadows  and  through  the  woods  and 
along  the  shores  of  the  lake.  Some  boys  were  play- 
ing informally  at  ball,  and  Bob,  trotting  up  to 
them  politely,  was  permitted  to  join  the  game. 
He  became  very  popular  because  of  his  intelli- 
gence and  good  spirits.  He  waited  until  the  ball 
was  tossed  to  him  or  thrown  a  distance  for  him 
to  chase.  He  would  bring  it  promptly  to  the  one 
who  threw  it  and  eagerly  wait  for  his  turn  again. 
These  boys  loved  him  and  treated  him  with  the 
most  considerate  and  affectionate  respect.  When 
we  left  they  said  good-bye  to  him. 

Two  little  girls  had  a  happy  hour  throwing 
sticks  in  the  water  for  him  to  catch. 

He  made  acquaintance  with  other  dogs,  but 
only  two  proved  to  be  worth  the  trouble.  One  was 
a  fox  terrier  that  circled  and  doubled  and  dodged 

[233] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


irtfirirrj'n 


with  him  in  a  delirium  of  good  spirits,  and  the 
other  was  a  full-grown,  awkward  Irish  setter  pup 
that  did  his  best.  This  last  dog's  master  proved  to 
be  a  neighbor  of  ours,  and  a  very  amiable  gentle- 
man. 

"You  must  come  over,"  he  said.  "Mike  wants 
a  friend  like  Bob  to  play  with." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  stopped  at  Nancy's 
home  on  our  way  to  New  York  with  Bob. 

"Whose  dog  is  that?"  asked  Nancy's  mother 
from  the  doorway. 

"Ours." 

"I  can't  have  him  here — I  can't  have  him  here." 
She  put  her  hands  out  in  protest  and  backed  away 
nervously. 

"We  keep  him  at  the  office." 

"Do  you  ?"  wonderingly.  "Why,  how  long  have 
you  had  him — is  that  Bob?    When  did  he  come?" 

Nancy  told  the  story.  "We  are  taking  him  back 
to  the  office." 

"Come,  Bobbie,"  said  the  mother  softly,  walk- 
ing out  upon  the  steps.  Bob  ran  to  her  and  pressed 
against  her  knees,  looking  lovingly  up.  She 
stooped  and  took  his  exquisite  head  to  her  bosom. 

"You  had  better  put  him  in  the  cellar  over- 

[234] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


night,"  she  said.  "It  is  too  far  to  go  just  to  take 
him  back." 

Nancy  winked  at  me. 

"Come,  Bobbie."  He  followed  the  mother  into 
the  house.  We  put  our  wheels  in  the  basement  en- 
trance and  went  upstairs.  When  we  entered  the 
sitting-room,  Bob  was  eating  cookies  from  a 
mother's  hand.  He  slept  in  my  room  that  night 
and  every  night  thereafter  until  Nancy  and  I  went 
to  housekeeping  for  ourselves. 

Every  morning,  while  we  lived  in  Brooklyn, 
Bob  went  to  New  York  with  us.  Sometimes  we 
started  in  the  cool  of  the  dawn  and  walked  five 
miles ;  sometimes  we  rode  our  wheels.  In  giving 
him  his  proper  exercise  we  secured  our  own  and 
exchanged  the  old,  uncomfortable  journey  in  a 
crowded  car  for  an  exhilarating  pleasure  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  day. 

We  secured  a  permit  for  him  and  in  wet  wea- 
ther we  took  him  in  a  car.  If  we  left  the  office  for 
home  between  five  and  seven  we  were,  of  course, 
caught  in  the  rush  of  people  that  crowd  lower 
Broadway  and  stampede  the  bridge  between  those 
hours.  Bob  became  familiar  with  the  confusion 
and  the  riot.   In  the  evening,  when  we  reached  the 

[  235] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^^^p^ 


street,  he  would  disappear  among  the  dense  mass 
of  legs  and  work  his  way  rapidly  far  ahead  of  us, 
intent  on  a  certain  project  of  his  own.  We  would 
not  see  him  again  until  we  reached  Mary,  our 
news  woman,  who  sat  by  her  basket  at  the  edge  of 
the  park  walk,  near  the  old  Hall  of  Records.  We 
would  find  him  here,  standing  close  by  her  side, 
wagging  his  tail  gently,  looking  with  affection 
into  her  cheery  face  as  she  called  him  pet  names 
and  handed  out  her  papers  briskly. 

Arrived  at  the  bridge  entrance,  Nancy  and  I 
stood  just  under  the  stairs,  outside  the  radius  of 
riot  about  the  cars,  and  waited.  Bob  sat  alertly  at 
my  feet.  When  the  Putnam  and  Halsey  cajne 
around  the  curve  I  would  say  :  "There  it  is,"  and 
Bob,  slipping  deftly  between  the  crowding  legs, 
would  reach  it  with  amazing  speed  and  enter 
among  the  first.  The  people  came  to  know  him 
and  looked  upon  his  exploit  with  affectionate 
good-will.  It  was,  "Hello,  Bobbie,"  or  "Look  out 
there.    Don't  step  on  Bob." 

He  would  jump  on  a  seat  and  hold  it  until 
Nancy  came. 

In  the  morning  Bob  had  no  Mary  to  visit,  nor 
v/as  he  as  anxious  for  the  office  as  for  home.    And 

[236] 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  DOG 


the  morning  itself  called  to  him  with  the  voices  of 
youth  and  expectation  and  delight.  He  was  a 
wild  and  joyous  spirit  in  the  morning.  He  would 
seize  Nancy's  skirt  and  coax  her  to  race  with  him. 
He  would  snatch  her  bag  and  prance  away  with 
it,  casting  roguish  glances  behind.  When  we 
reached  City  Hall  Park,  he  would  dash  into  the 
green  enclosures  and  send  the  sparrows  into  the 
air.  He  would  chase  them  into  the  bushes  and 
into  the  open,  nmning  swiftly  in  wide  circles, 
leaping,  dodging — a  creature  of  such  grace  and 
life  and  beauty  that  thousands  of  hurrying  people 
would  stop  and  stare  until  a  policeman  would  ap- 
pear and  good-naturedly  ask  us  to  call  the  dog 
away  and  move  on,  as  the  walks  were  blocked. 
Bob  has  sent  a  great  many  people  to  their  labor 
smiling.  For  him  the  city  has  been  friendly,  for 
he  learned  to  look  upon  it  as  a  friend. 

Mr.  Morgan  has  a  great  many  more  collies  than 
I,  and  yet  he  does  not  neglect  business  for  them. 
He  could  not  have  so  many  and  such  expensive 
ones  if  he  did.  I  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  with 
Bob  that  might  have  been  devoted  to  speculation, 
or  to  commerce.  It  was  during  this  time  that  Mr. 
Morgan  formed  the  steamship  trust. 

[237] 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


ON   BAXTER   STREET 


-^ 

^ — 1 

i 

I 

1 

1 

'Ww\ 

! 

f^ 

N  three  years  we  made,  between 
us,  enough  to  live  on  and  saved 
seven  thousand  dollars,  and 
during  the  summers  we  ran 
away  for  four  months  on  the 
island  or  in  the  mountains. 
We  were  able  to  do  this,  because,  romantic  as  our 
life  was,  filled  with  the  most  absurd  and  whimsi- 
cal delights,  it  cost  us  little — about  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  in  fact.  For  a  while  we  lived  on 
the  upper  West  Side,  paying  thirty-five  dollars  a 
month  for  our  flat,  in  order  that  we  might  have 
air  and  sunlight,  and  we  secured  this  by  looking 
for  it  and  finding  an  apartment  house  adjoining  a 
vacant  lot.  We  wondered  why  it  was  that  people 
requiring  but  three  rooms  could  not  secure  less 
than  six  unless  they  paid  a  fortune  for  them  in 
some  huge  apartment  hotel. 

[238] 


o 
3 


3 
O 


o 

3 


n 

D3 
-f 

o 

o 

a 
D3 

5^ 

n 

n 
o 

c 


3 


ON  BAXTER  STREET 


^^^ff^f 


One  day  I  was  riding  up  Park  Row,  when  I 
saw,  a  few  blocks  above  the  Brooklyn  bridge,  a 
new  apartment  house,  seven  stories  high,  towering 
a  considerable  distance  above  the  squalid  build- 
ings in  the  neighborhood.  It  was  of  cream-colored 
brick;  the  windows  and  doors  were  framed  in 
granite  and  cased  with  polished  hardwood. 

The  ground  floor  was  enclosed  with  huge  panes 
of  plate  glass.  I  stared  at  this  apparition,  and 
read  the  sign,  "Apartments  to  Let — Three  and 
Four  Rooms.    All  the  Modern  Improvements." 

Twenty  minutes  later  I  had  reached  the  top 
floor  on  a  tour  of  inspection  with  the  janitor. 
Every  room  and  every  window  opened  to  a  broad 
view.  From  those  in  front  the  Brooklyn  bridge 
could  be  seen.  We  went  to  the  rear,  and  as  we 
entered  the  three-room  apartment  in  the  northwest 
corner  I  felt  that  here  was  what  I  had  been  seek- 
ing. The  centre  room  was  a  good-sized  kitchen 
and  dining-room,  with  a  combination  gas  and  coal 
stove,  stationary  tubs  and  a  neat  little  sink,  buffet 
and  china  closet. 

On  one  side  of  the  kitchen  was  a  little  bedroom, 
done  in  terra-cotta,  hard  finish,  and  on  the  other 
side  a  sunny  parlor,  with  a  carved  mantel,  covered 

[241] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^i^ii 

^^n^ 


with  green  and  gilt  paper,  and  daintily  decorated 
ceiling.  The  gas  fixtures  were  in  themselves  a 
graceful  ornament.  There  were  four  large  win- 
dows in  the  three  rooms,  and  as  nothing  in  the 
neighborhood  arose  to  this  height,  the  view  was 
uninterrupted  to  north  and  west.  It  was  two 
o'clock  and  the  little  flat  was  filled  with  the  pleas- 
ant sunshine. 

"How  much?"  I  asked. 

"Fifteen  dollars  a  month." 

It  would  require  a  whole  book  to  portray  the 
astonishment  of  Nancy  at  my  news. 

"Is  there  a  bathroom?"  she  asked. 

"No;  but  there  are  the  stationary  tubs.  The 
parlor  will,  of  course,  be  your  room,  and  it's  really 
beautiful." 

As  she  hesitated,  I  said : 

"It  would  be  nice  to  have  a  bathtub,  but  it  is 
worth  doing  with  the  makeshift  for  a  while  to 
live  on  the  corner  of  Baxter  street  and  Park  Row. 
It  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  be  able  to  do  so." 

And  we  found  this  to  be  true. 

I  know  that  we  were  as  happy  there  as,  no 
doubt,  we  could  have  been  even  on  Fifth  avenue. 
It  is  a  poor  philosophy  that  cannot  reconcile  a  man 

[  242  ] 


ON  BAXTER  STREET 


:i$f*w%rtft--r.m 


to  wealth  and  luxury.  It  may  be  easier  to  find  a 
joyous  interest  and  remain  innocent  on  Baxter 
street.    But  if  it  is  easier  that  is  all. 

Of  course,  for  a  man  or  woman  to  be  happy 
anywhere,  each  must  have  a  happy  mate.  Bach- 
elors and  maids  may  find  serenity  within  them- 
selves, but  they  cannot  avoid  the  haunting  loneli- 
ness of  the  closed  up  portions  of  a  dwelling-.  Each 
is  but  the  half  of  something  perfect.  Happiness 
is  not  a  gift  from  the  world  outside,  but  it  is  the 
fruit  and  perfume  of  the  world  within.  In  nature 
the  complete  individual  is  man  and  wife.  To  be 
happy,  then,  we  must  possess  the  mind  and  soul 
of  happiness,  and  be  mated  with  the  same.  Our 
happiness  is  not  dependent  upon  others,  but  we 
are  at  the  mercy  of  ourselves  and  of  our  mates. 
We  may  delight  in  such  virtues  as  we  find  in  those 
about  us  and  remain  unruffled  by  their  vices,  their 
encroachments  or  attacks;  but  any  meanness  in 
ourselves  or  in  our  mates  must  be  got  rid  of  or  it 
becomes  our  woe. 

Our  idyl  of  the  tenements  was,  therefore,  possi- 
ble because  of  Nancy.    To  a  friend  she  wrote : 

"We  agreed  to  spend  one  hundred  dollars  for 
the  furnishing.     You  will  think  that  was  a  little 

[243  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Pjtw^ 


sum,  and  so  did  I,  but  the  result  surprised  me. 
Really,  the  things  will  do,  and  there  was  a  new 
kind  of  pleasure  for  me  in  hunting  them.  I  did 
not  know  how  elastic  the  delights  of  shopping  are. 
They,  too,  seem  to  be  tempered  to  the  shorn.  My 
lord's  views  always  did  seem  beautiful  to  me  in  the 
pages  of  a  book,  but  I  am  still  a  little  dazed  by  the 
fact  that  we  may  really  live  by  them.  He  says 
this  condition  of  mind  becomes  me,  for  it  keeps 
me  docile.  I  am  so  happy  I  sometimes  fear  I  am 
asleep.  Was  our  summer  on  the  island  a  fantastic 
dream  ?  Did  you  really  come  there  once,  or  were 
you  only  a  phantom  from  a  phantom  boat  ?  I  am 
certain  of  the  mountains,  for  we  have  a  deed  and 
the  remnant  of  a  debt  to  pay.  We  are  going  to 
build  a  house  up  there.  I  shall  fly  from  the  win- 
dows of  my  office  some  day  and  alight  in  that  en- 
chanted forest.  Meanwhile,  we  are  on  Park  Row 
and  Baxter  street.  We  live  on  the  most  ridiculous 
amount.  I  must  give  you  the  details,  or  you  won't 
believe.  We  have  very  pleasant  little  suppers  that 
cost  us  almost  nothing.  We  have  always  bought 
lx)iled  ham  at  thirty-five  cents  a  pound,  and  never 
less  than  that  quantity.  Now,  my  good  John 
Canella  has  four  dainty  little  slices,  all  done  up  in 

[  244] 


ON  BAXTER  STREET 


white  paper,  which  he  passes  over  to  me  for  ten 
cents.  These  I  make  crisp  with  hot  butter  in  a  fry- 
ing pan  (bought  at  the  ten-cent  store),  and  with 
the  sort  of  waffles  that  you  and  I  used  to  make  at 
the  island,  coffee  and  apple  sauce,  they  serve  as  our 
main  meal.  Sometimes  we  have  chops — four  little 
French  chops,  for  fifteen  cents,  and  really  very 
good,  too.  We  poke  about  among  the  apple  carts 
for  our  apples,  sometimes  getting  a  dozen  for  a 
dime  and  sometimes  fifteen. 

"Near  the  cart  where  we  usually  buy  our  fruit 
stands  an  old  truck  horse.  We  always  manage  to 
afford  him  one,  but  once  w^hen  I  forgot  to  pass 
over  his  share  he  sharply  nipped  my  arm. 

"One  of  our  Italian  grocers  makes  a  specialty  of 
spaghetti  and  macaroni,  cheeses  and  candles — 
the  short,  thick  kind  used  by  the  Italian  peasant, 
and  which  we,  too,  burn  sometimes.  One  whole 
side  of  his  store  is  partitioned  off,  and  there  are,  at 
least,  twenty  little  boxes,  arranged  like  nests,  filled 
with  the  different  sorts  of  spaghetti — some  flat 
and  long,  like  tape  worms,  some  in  queer,  slender 
spirals,  some  like  a  dainty  white  shell,  and  others 
like  rings  and  noodles.  I  love  spaghetti,  and  when 
my  Tonv  isn't  too  busy  he  tells  me  how  to  make  it 

[  245  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


..%r*<.«rirrr 


into  delicious  and  wholesome  dishes.  And  he  has 
such  curious  loaves  of  bread,  in  crusty  rolls,  that 
he  sells  for  a  cent  a  loaf.  You  break  off  the  outer 
crusty  roll,  and  lo!  there  is  still  another  outer 
crusty  roll.  Such  a  loaf  serves  us  for  two  meals. 
Such  an  odd  assortment  of  cheeses,  which  we  both 
love,  and  queer  nuts  and  fruits. 

"I  think,  however,  that  I  spend  more  in  sul- 
phur candles  than  I  do  for  bread,  for  I  fumigate  at 
least  three  times  a  week,  and  sometimes  scatter 
chloride  of  lime  between  us  and  the  Casa  Pologgi, 
which  I  once  forgot  to  clean  up  in  the  early  morn- 
ing before  they  got  up.  There  are  two  prd:ty, 
bright-eyed  little  girls  who  suspect  me.  They 
told  me,  in  a  whisper,  that  night,  that  there  was  a 
bad  man  who  came  around  at  night  and  scattered 
things  that  made  bad  smells — and  sometimes,  they 
said,  they  thought  it  might  be  me. 

"I  stayed  all  alone  in  this  great  house  for  a 
whole  week.  I  had  heard  such  fearsome  things 
about  this  terrible  old  place,  but  I  thought  I'd  risk 
it,  for  it  is  so  convenient  to  the  office,  and  I  can 
stay  there  as  late  as  I  please.  When  I  pleased  to 
stay  late,  I  had  the  dark  stairway  to  climb — seven 
flights  up,  with  all  sorts  of  horrors  lying  low  for 

[  246  ] 


n 

u 

•-I 

o 

c 

•-I 

n 

cr 

3- 

o 

Bl 

F1 

=r 

o 

u 

o 

3 

C/^ 

f-» 

.n 

=r 

c 

(T> 

u 

^ 

W 

(T 

M 

C/5 

(y3 

Q- 

n 

ON  BAXTER  STREET 


me  on  each  landing.  An  old  Italian  janitor — not  a 
word  of  English  passed  between  us — would  admit 
me  about  half-past  ten,  and  between  us  and  the  sky- 
there  was  only  a  faint  flicker  of  economic  light,  at 
the  very  top,  and  I  palpitated  up  and  up  the  long 
flights;  but  it  was  the  sort  of  palpitation  that  I 
wanted.  Nobody  ever  climbed  my  easy  fire  es- 
cape, though  I  waited  for  him  with  an  open  win- 
dow all  the  night  through,  and  there  were  no  lone 
shrieks  from  below  and  no  flashing  of  stilettos  and 
no  squabbling,  and  no  vendettas,  but  only  just  the 
peaceful  quiet  that  I  found  always  on  our  deserted 
Brooklyn  streets.  Sometimes  the  good  old  janitor 
would  climb  all  the  way  up  to  the  top  with  me 
when  I  could  not  make  him  understand,  with 
my  free  and  easy  gestures,  that  I  wasn't  at  all 
afraid. 

"I  fear  if  you  and  I  had  to  live  forever  on  this 
East  Side,  we  wouldn't  do  much  reforming,  with 
the  limited  conveniences  these  people  have.  This 
Monday  morning  our  water  was  turned  off.  It 
doesn't  flow  ever,  any  morning,  except  Sunday, 
after  seven.  There  was  a  mass  meeting  of  anxious 
women  at  the  janitor's  apartments,  five  flights  up. 
The  good  landlord  had  neglected  to  get  in  the 

[249  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"iUiii 


week's  supply  of  coai,  and  we  had  no  power  to 
pump  the  water  up.  Luckily,  I  had  put  some  aside. 
And  so  these  busy  workers,  who  are  up  at  five  in 
the  morning  to  get  to  their  shops  early,  had  to  go 
to  neighboring  pumps  and  carry  water,  some  up 
five,  some  seven  flights,  for  washing  and  cooking. 
How  many  baths  do  you  suppose  you  and  I,  who 
find  the  daily  plunge  a  necessity,  would  take,  if  we 
had  to  carry  water  such  a  way?  And  we  haven't 
any  yet,  either,  and  this  is  Saturday  morning.  My 
little  Louis  comes  and  gets  me  some.  We  did  dip 
it  out  of  the  great  tank  on  the  roof,  but  that  has 
frozen  over.  When  you  rub  up  against  some  poor 
devil  in  the  street  car,  just  think  of  this.  The  life 
here  throws  quite  a  new  light  on  things. 

"I  thought  I  would  set  quite  a  shining  example 
when  I  first  came,  but  I  was  nearly  caught  again ; 
and  now,  when  anything  goes  wrong,  my  little 
girls  come  and  tell  me,  with  suspicion  in  their 
eyes. 

"There  was  no  receptacle  for  ashes,  and  I 
couldn't  get  anybody  to  carry  them  away.  Every- 
body over  here  is  so  busy,  you  can't  hire  things 
done  as  you  can  on  the  West  Side,  but  must  do 
things  yourself.   And  so  I  carried  my  ashes  down 

[  250] 


ON  BAXTER  STREET 


^rt««rirr  TB 


in  some  thick  newspapers,  but  I  got  too  many  in, 
or  they  burned  through,  or  the  string  came  untied, 
before  I  could  reach  the  lower  floor.  Anyhow, 
they  were  leaking  on  the  stairs,  and  when  I  heard 
the  fat  janitress  puffing  up  the  stairs  toward  me,  I 
laid  them  in  a  dark  corner  of  one  of  the  private 
stairways.  When  I  returned  an  hour  later  I  hearcl 
her  scolding  an  innocent  Italian  woman  (who 
couldn't  speak  enough  to  deny  the  charge)  for 
dirtying  up  the  halls  of  a  decent  house.  She 
turned  to  me,  as  one  lady  to  another,  and  exclaim- 
ed, as  if  for  sympathy,  'I  never  did  see  such  dirty 
people,  nohow !'  And  I  was  ashamed  not  to  be 
the  lady  she  meant,  and  couldn't  own  up.  Arthur 
threatens  to  write  a  story,  entitled,  'Blue-eyed 
Nancy ;  or.  The  Dainty  Little  Terror  of  the  Tene- 
ments.' 

"And  I  didn't  scrub  my  private  hall — that  is,  the 
Pologgi  hall  and  ours.  So  little  Louis  told  me 
this  morning  that  I  must  either  do  it  myself  or 
pay  his  sister  to  do  it,  as  this  was  my  week  and 
the  hall  must  be  kept  clean.  This  was  the  first 
labor  I  had  been  able  to  hire. 

"Thursday  night  one  of  the  Pologgi  girls  was 
married,  and  we  had  the  genuine  Italian  wine, 

[251] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


which  was  very  sweet  and  very  bad,  and  the  sort 
of  confetti  that  the  peasants  eat,  and  we  had  to 
shake  hands  all  around  and  watch  the  young  peo- 
ple dance  their  national  dances  in  a  twelve  by  fif- 
teen-foot room.  How  gay  they  were,  and  yet  they 
work  so  hard.  I  hear  these  young  girls  at  their 
sewing  machines  at  five  in  the  morning.  I  sus- 
pect them  of  eating  their  cats.  They  always  have 
a  new  one — a-fatteuing,  I  think.  When  one  dis- 
appears I  smell  the  weirdest  smells,  and  hear  a 
great  sizzling,  and  soon  after,  I  find  a  new,  sleepy- 
looking  cat  dozing  on  their  doorsill. 

"They  are  all  very  kind  to  me,  especially  the  old 
padre,  because  I  say  'Si,  si'  to  him  as  long  as  he 
will,  and  we  smile  and  bow  and  scrape.  He  often 
brings  me  over  kindlings.  He  picks  up  old  boxes 
in  the  streets,  and  I  take  them  because  it  pleases 
him.  We  buy  wood  in  funny  little  bundles,  three 
for  five  cents,  and  my  Louis  sometimes  buys  coal 
in  bags,  and  retails  it  to  us  by  the  scuttle.  I  simply 
can't  carry  a  bundle  upstairs,  if  any  of  them  catch 
me  at  it.  Even  the  old  madre,  if  she  has  her  head 
and  shoulders  and  arms  full,  and  she  is  no  bigger 
than  I  am,  pleads  with  me,  up  flight  after  flight, 
unhappy  if  I  won't  permit." 

[  252] 


ON  BAXTER  STREET 


^Ww 


"And  now,"  said  Nancy,  when  we  were  settled, 
"we'll  have  a  little  dinner  and  invite  the  girls." 
We  looked  complacently  at  our  sunny  rooms. 

"Have  we  the  dishes?" 

"Oh,"  said  Nancy  easily,  "we'll  manage  that." 

"Let  us  see,"  I  said,  reaching  for  a  favorite 
book,  "how  these  things  are  done." 

"Mrs.  Sherwood?"  asked  Nancy,  laughing. 

"Don't  laugh.  This  book  is  full  of  tragedy. 
Here  is  something  which  seems  beautiful." 

In  the  "Manual  of  Social  Usages,"  I  read : 

"The  people  who  enter  a  modern  dining-room 
find  a  picture  before  them,  the  result  of  painstak- 
ing thought,  taste  and  experience.  The  open- 
work white  table-cloth  lies  on  a  red  ground,  and 
above  it  rests  a  mat  of  red  velvet,  embroidered 
with  peacock's  feathers  and  gold  lace.  Above  this 
stands  a  large  silver  salver,  or  oblong  tray,  lined 
with  reflecting  glass,  on  which  Dresden  swan  and 
silver  lilies  seem  floating  in  a  veritable  lake.  In 
the  middle  of  this  long  tray  stands  a  lofty  vase  of 
silver  or  crystal,  with  flowers  and  fruit  cunningly 
disposed  in  it,  and  around  it  are  placed  tropical 
vines.    At  each  of  the  four  corners  of  the  table 

[253  ] 


1 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


>f  rfvirirrt^r: 


stand  four  rnby  glass  flagons,  set  in  gold,  stand- 
ards of  beautiful  and  rare  designs.  Cups  or  silver 
gilt  vases,  with  centres  of  cut  glass,  hold  the  bon- 
bons and  smaller  fruits.  Four  candelabra  hold  up 
red  wax  candles,  with  red  shades.  Flat  glass 
troughs,  filled  with  flowers,  stand  opposite  each 
place,  grouped  in  a  floral  pattern." 

"A  very  beautiful  dinner  far  up  Fifth  avenue 
had  this  winter  an  entirely  new  idea,  inasmuch  as 
the  flowers  were  put  overhead.  The  delicate  vine, 
resembling  green  asparagus  in  its  fragility,  was 
suspended  from  the  chandelier  to  the  four  corners 
of  the  room,  and  on  it  were  hung  delicate  roses, 
lilies  of  the  valley,  pinks  and  fragrant  jasmine, 
which  sent  down  their  odors,  and  occasionally 
dropped  into  a  lady's  lap.  This  is  an  exquisite  bit 
of  luxury." 

I  looked  at  Nancy,  and  she  at  me. 

"We'll  have  all  that  some  time." 

"Really?"  she  asked,  and  a  glow  of  pleasure 
filled  her  eyes,  nor  was  her  smile  incredulous,  for, 
the  fact  is,  she  believes  in  me. 

"I  think  we  will  some  time,  when  the  world  has 

[254] 


ON  BAXTER  STREET 


really  become  a  fairyland,  and  such  pleasures  may 
be  had  by  dropping  a  nickel  in  the  slot.  And  that 
is  not  so  wild  a  dream.  Mrs.  Sherwood  seems  to 
think  we  have  reached  that  now.  'Truly/  she  says, 
*we  live  in  the  days  of  Aladdin.  Six  weeks  after 
the  ground  was  broken  in  Secretary  Whitney's 
garden,  in  Washington,  for  his  ball-room,  the 
company  assembled  in  a  magnificent  apartment, 
with  fluted  gold  ceiling  and  crimson  brocade  hang- 
ings, bronzes,  statues  and  Dresden  candlesticks, 
and  a  large  wood  fire  at  one  end,  in  which  logs  six 
feet  long  were  burning — all  looking  as  if  it  were 
a  part  of  an  old  baronial  castle  of  the  middle 
ages.' 

"But,"  I  said,  "there  is  too  much  back  of  all 
that  now.  For  one  thing,  there  is  the  Amalga- 
mated Copper  Deal,  and  here  is  a  glimpse  that 
Mrs.  Sherwood  gives  herself :  She  complains  that 
our  elegance,  as  a  nation,  is  marred  by  the  lack  of 
well-trained  servants.  *A  mistress  of  a  house,' 
she  says,  'should  be  capable  of  teaching  her  ser- 
vants the  method  of  laying  a  table  and  attending 
it  if  she  has  to  take,  as  we  commonly  must,  the 
uneducated  Irishman  from  his  native  bogs,  as  a 
house  servant.    If  she  employs  the  accomplished 

[255] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


and  well-recommended  foreign  servant,  he  is  too 
apt  to  disarrange  her  establishment  by  disparag- 
ing the  scale  on  which  it  is  conducted,  and  to  en- 
gender a  spirit  of  discontent  in  her  household.'  " 

"I  certainly  wouldn't  like  that,"  interrupted 
Nancy. 

"  'Servants  of  a  very  high  class  who  can  as- 
sume the  entire  management  of  affairs  are  only 
possible  to  people  of  great  wealth,  and  they  be- 
come tyrants,  and  wholly  detestable  to  the  master 
and  mistress  after  a  short  slavery.'  " 

We  mused  a  while  over  this,  as  I  turned  the 
pages. 

"Here  is  something/'  I  said,  "that  we  can  give 
heed  to.  She  warns  us  against  overcrowding  at  a 
feast.  'In  a  gas-lighted,  furnace-heated  room  in 
New  York,'  she  says,  'the  sufferings  of  the  diners- 
out  are  sometimes  terrible.  Twenty-four  people 
often  sit  down  at  a  modern  dinner  table,  and  are 
well  served  by  a  butler  and  two  men,  though  some 
luxurious  dinner-givers  have  a  man  behind  each 
chair '  " 

"Isn't  that  ridiculous?"  exclaimed  Nancy. 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Sherwood  says,  'This,  however,  is 
ostentation.'  " 

[256] 


ON  BAXTER  STREET 


^ittftf 


We  gave  our  dinner,  and  it  cost  us  ninety  cents 
— spaghetti,  six  slices  of  ham,  baked  potatoes  with 
milk  gravy,  rolls,  coffee  with  cream,  and  apple 
sauce.  But  we  were  six  people,  glad  to  be  together 
at  any  price,  enjoying  alike  our  silence  and  our 
noise.  When  the  feast  was  over  we  went  upon  the 
roof,  and  leaned  our  elbows  on  the  wall  and  watch- 
ed the  swarming  streets,  the  elevated  trains  riding 
past  like  phosphorescent  serpents,  the  spectacle  of 
the  illuminated  bridge — a  band  of  splendor  arch- 
ing an  abyss,  the  tall  buildings  like  constellations, 
and  to  our  ears  came  the  sounds  of  life,  a  rhythmic 
roar,  songs,  street  instruments,  and,  above  them 
all,  a  shriek  of  laughter  or  an  angry  cry. 


[257  ] 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STREETS 


HE  famous  block  of  Baxter 
street,  bounded  by  Park  Row 
and  Park  street,  is  not  wHat  it 
was  before  the  Hebrews  aban- 
doned it  for  the  Hvelier  trade 
of  Division  and  Canal  streets. 
In  the  old  days,  both  sides  of  the  block  were  lined 
with  junk  shops  and  second-hand  clothing  dens, 
the  curbs  were  filled  with  push-carts,  and  the 
passer-by  was  compelled  to  fight  his  way  along 
the  seething  walks,  shaking  off  the  greedy  hands 
of  brokers  and  pushing  through  excited  groups  of 
merchants  and  customers.  The  block  is  quieter 
now,  for  it  is  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  Italians 
and  Germans.  Some  three  or  four  families  are  all 
that  remain  of  the  alert  and  clamoring  Hebrew 
multitude.     The  rickety,  low  buildings  are  occu- 

[258] 


"Inhabited  by  Italians  and  Germans.' 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STREETS 


^fW 


pied  by  German  saloons,  Italian  groceries,  baker- 
ies and  candy  stores,  the  saloon  of  William 
O'Shea,  a  Hebrew  shoe  store  and  three  or  four 
second-hand  clothing  stores,  kept  by  Hebrews  and 
Italians.  The  old  life  of  the  street  is  surely  doom- 
ed. The  few  barkers  left  upon  it  stand  before 
their  dark,  ill-smelling  dens,  eyeing  with  a  kind  of 
stupefaction  the  sober,  intelligent,  well-dressed 
people  who  more  and  more  frequently  pass  by 
them.  Their  attempts  to  seize  upon  a  customer 
have  become  fitful  and  the  intervals  of  oppression 
and  inertia  grow  longer  day  by  day.  They  look 
upon  the  towering,  clean  apartment  house  on  the 
corner,  peer  stupidly  at  the  self-contained  pedes- 
trians, shrug  their  shoulders,  and  wonder  what 
will  happen  if  they  can  no  longer  sell.  There  are 
push-carts  still  by  the  curbing,  but  they  are  few  in 
comparison  with  those  of  other  times.  The  tene- 
ments of  the  block  are  still  swarming  with  people 
who  loiter  along  the  street  to  examine  and  buy, 
but  every  day  the  percentage  of  Germans  and  Ital- 
ians and  American  day  laborers  increases,  and  the 
clamor  grows  less  and  less. 

Every  day,  however,  after  four  o'clock,  and  all 
Saturday  and  Sunday  the  block  is  filled  with  chil- 

[261] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


dren  freed  from  school  and  it  then  becomes  a  pan- 
demonium of  sound  and  motion.  To  move  through 
the  street  is  hke  tramping  through  an  ant-hill.  A 
stranger  to  the  scene  would  see  only  the  boisterous 
confusion,  the  rags  and  dirt,  and  hear  only  the 
piercing  din.  "These  are  the  children  of  the 
slums,"  he  would  say;  "they  are  unclean,  savage, 
unruly,  hopeless."  But  there  is  promise  in  this 
boisterous  uproar.  It  has  been  centuries  since  such 
robust  sounds  have  come  from  the  children  of  poor 
Italians  and  Jews. 

One  Friday  afternoon,  not  far  from  our  hall- 
way, I  saw  my  little  neighbor,  Louis  Pologgi,  and 
his  friend,  Gabriel  Canepa,  perched  upon  a  barrel 
in  the  gutter,  swinging  their  bare  legs  and  yelling 
with  all  their  might.  They  sat  close  together  fac- 
ing the  street,  each  with  a  faded  blue  jockey  cap 
perched  upon  his  bullet  head.  They  used  no  words. 
They  were  just  yelling  for  the  joy  the  noise  and 
the  exercise  gave  them.  To  them  came  Augustus 
Ringler,  a  sturdy  German  warrior  of  the  streets. 
He  clutched  their  knees  and  shook  them,  bawling 
up  into  their  faces  : 

"Look  here,  I  tell  you.    Look  here." 
Gabriel  Canepa  was  quiet.     He  cast  a  shifting 

[262] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STREETS 


■.V,-.  ,i'-"''>»v' 


glance  at  the  interloper  and  writhed  away  from 
his  grip.  Louis  Pologgi  continued  to  yell  as  l^e- 
fore. 

"My  sister  is  dead,"  said  Augustus  solemnly. 
"The  undertaker  has  come  already." 

Gabriel  slipped  from  the  barrel  and  ran  up  the 
street  to  join  a  crowd  assembling  about  an  over- 
turned apple  cart.  Augustus  cast  a  resentful 
glance  after  him,  and  turned  to  Louis.  "My  sister 
is  dead,"  he  bawled.  "My  sister  is  dead,  I  tell 
you!" 

Louis  looked  down  contemptuously.  "Forget 
it,"  he  said  with  a  lofty  philosophy.  He  lifted  his 
free  leg  and  kicked  Augustus  in  the  breast.  Au- 
gustus gave  the  barrel  a  push  that  sent  it  rolling, 
but  Louis  landed  on  his  feet.  He  thrust  his  stom- 
ach far  out  and  went  wriggling  and  strutting 
along  the  walk,  making  grotesque  gestures  and 
grimaces,  issuing  loud,  strange  sounds  and  keep- 
ing a  corner  of  his  eye  on  the  enraged  Augustus. 
But  the  German  blood  was  not  boiling  yet,  and 
there  was  no  pursuit.  I>ouis  was  joined  by  Ga- 
briel, devouring  an  apple,  the  pockets  of  his  tight 
coat  bulging  with  two  others. 

"Give  me,"  said  Louis,  grabbing  for  a  pocket. 

[263] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^^V^ 


Gabriel  ducked  and  ran.  Louis  gave  pursuit.  The 
chase  took  them  to  the  end  of  the  block  and  back 
again.  They  leaped  among  the  clothes  hanging 
before  a  second-hand  store,  tore  down  a  pair  of 
trousers,  and  were  kicked  into  the  gutter  by  the 
barker.  Here  they  rolled  and  twisted  in  a  close 
embrace,  until  Louis  sat  astride  of  Gabriel  and 
took  the  apples  from  his  pocket.  Then  they  walk- 
ed, panting,  to  a  doorway,  and,  sitting  down  side 
by  side,  divided  the  spoil  equally  and  ate  it  to- 
gether. Neither  had  received  a  scratch  in  the  com- 
bat. Italian  boys  do  not  inflict  wounds  in  the 
open.    They  are  careful  through  bodily  fear. 

As  they  sat  in  the  doorway  a  little  girl  of  three 
came  slowly  down  the  walk,  sucking  a  banana  peel 
she  had  gleaned  from  a  garbage  can.  She  was 
little  Filipina  Pologgi.  A  mass  of  glossy  black 
hair,  waving  and  tangled,  tumbled  about  her 
shoulders  and  framed  her  olive  cheeks.  Her  red, 
moist  lips  were  puckered  about  the  banana  peel, 
moving  with  a  caressing  motion  as  she  sucked.  A 
little  stream  oozed  from  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
and,  mixing  with  the  grime,  covered  her  dimpled 
chin  with  paste.  Her  eyes  were  big  and  black  and 
glowing  with  a  soft  light,  like  that  reflected  in  a 

[264] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STREETS 


^ifWtf 


shaded  pool.  She  looked  about  her  calmly,  as  a 
lady  who  strolls  through  the  secluded  walks  of  her 
garden,  lost  in  the  serene  reveries  of  contentment. 

When  Louis  saw  his  little  sister  passing,  his 
heart  became  like  warm  wax.  He  ran  to  her,  got 
upon  his  knees  beside  her,  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  yielding  cheeks  over  and  over.  She 
offered  him  her  banana  peel,  and  he  took  it,  throw- 
ing it  away  with  a  wry  face  and  putting  the  half 
of  his  apple  in  her  chubby  hand.  He  pushed  the 
hair  from  her  eyes.  Sweet,  crooning  sounds  came 
from  his  lips.  He  held  his  head  back  and  gazed 
at  her  with  the  tender  idolatry  of  a  mother.  The 
unrestrained  doting,  the  affectionate  contortions 
of  the  eyes  and  mouth  gave  him  the  expression  of 
an  imbecile. 

A  kick  in  the  rear  brought  him  to  his  feet.  It 
was  Augustus  Ringler,  taking  the  easy  opportu- 
nity offered  to  vent  his  displeasure.  Louis  darted 
across  the  street,  and,  gathering  apple  cores,  pieces 
of  wood  and  odds  and  ends  of  refuse,  threw  them 
viciously.  Augustus  walked  slowly  along  the  op- 
posite walk  without  looking.  Louis  was  joined  by 
Gabriel  Canepa,  and  the  allies,  growing  bold  to- 
gether, crept  nearer.  Gabriel  found  a  rotten  tomato 

[265] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


«rf«iriFr>'r. 


near  an  overflowing  garbage  can,  and  threw  it 
with  such  effect  that  it  plastered  the  back  of  the 
German's  neck  from  his  hat  rim  to  his  coat  collar. 
Augustus  turned  in  quick  pursuit.  His  eyes  were 
full  of  fire  now.  His  cheeks  were  aflame.  He 
caught  both  his  tormentors  in  a  hallway,  knocked 
their  heads  together  violently,  banged  them 
against  the  wall,  threw  them  to  the  floor,  stamped 
upon  them,  and  left  them  writhing  and  moaning. 

"I'll  stick  the  Dutchy,"  gasped  Gabriel,  crawl- 
ing about  the  floor  like  a  sick  cat.  Louis  sat  up 
and  wiped  his  face.  There  was  blood  on  his  sleeve 
and  hand.  He  stared  at  it,  and  shuddered.  "I'll 
kill  him,"  he  shrieked.  "I'll  kill  him— I'll  kill 
him."  As  the  boys  were  stumbling  home  they 
found  a  brick  and  broke  it,  each  taking  a  half. 
All  that  evening  they  lurked  in  the  hallways 
waiting  for  Dutchy  to  pass,  but  they  did  not  see 
him. 

Saturday  morning  Louis  Pologgi  descended 
into  the  street  with  his  half  brick  buttoned  under 
his  coat.  His  swarthy,  pinched  face  was  full  of 
fear,  of  cunning,  of  passionate  longing  for  re- 
venge. He  looked  stealthily  toward  the  Ringler 
hallway  opposite,  trying  to  believe  he  would  have 

[266] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STREETS 


the  courage  to  attack  in  the  daytime,  but  misera- 
bly conscious  of  his  fear. 

An  open  hack  came  rapidly  down  the  street, 
scattering  the  children  and  drawing  them  after  it 
in  a  clamoring  swarm.  It  stopped  in  front  of 
Ringler's  saloon.  Great  floral  pieces  were  propped 
in  the  seats.  The  sides  were  overflowing  with 
roses  and  ferns.  The  wonder  with  which  Louis 
beheld  this  blooming  carriage  was  hardly  at  its 
full  when  a  still  more  amazing  spectacle  appeared. 
This  was  a  white  cathedral  on  wheels — a  glitter- 
ing, enameled  hearse,  with  plate-glass  sides,  silk 
cords  with  tassels,  with  towers  and  crosses  and 
steeples  and  figures  of  smiling  angels.  It  was 
drawn  by  white  horses,  covered  with  white  net- 
ting that  almost  swept  the  ground. 

To  the  mature,  even  to  the  critical  eye,  this 
white  hearse  must  have  been  an  appealing  symbol 
of  things  unseen.  For,  although  it  was  the  prop- 
erty of  the  undertaker  to  the  poor,  James  Murphy, 
and  was  by  no  means  as  costly  as  it  looked,  it  pos- 
sessed in  reality  a  value  no  single  man  could  have 
given  it,  and  which  not  even  a  Rockefeller  or  a 
Rothschild  could  have  made  his  own.  It  was  a 
product  of  the  centuries,  an  embodiment  of  the 

[267] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


loftiest  ideals,  the  most  poetic  fancies,  the  tender- 
est  and  noblest  religious  feelings  of  the  greatest 
natures  of  the  world,  gathered  together  by  the 
Catholic  Church  through  the  ages,  put  into  this 
compact  form,  and  rendered  so  cheap  by  the  slow 
process  and  the  universal  use  that  James  Murphy 
could  afford  one  for  the  little  corpses  of  Baxter 
street.  It  was,  on  this  bright  morning,  its  enam- 
eled surface  gleaming  in  the  sun,  a  vision  to  stir 
even  the  fat,  inert  imagination  of  Grandpa  Ring- 
ler.  It  is  impossible,  therefore,  to  exaggerate  its 
effect  on  Louis  Pologgi.  The  days  of  our  youth 
are  for  us  all  the  time  of  our  most  fantastic  con- 
ceptions. Age  gives  to  our  visions  a  form  and  sub- 
stance, but  that  which  most  allured  in  them  has 
escaped  to  the  glittering  limbo  beyond  the  outlines, 
a  boundless  limbo  for  dreamers  still  to  come. 

These  mincing  horses,  with  their  flowing  nets ; 
this  gleaming  edifice  of  steeples,  crowns  and 
crosses  and  winged  figures,  appeared  to  Louis 
Pologgi  as  a  messenger  from  that  world  he  viewed 
at  night  through  the  starry  peep-holes.  His  face 
grew  luminous  and  white,  his  dark  eyes  glowed. 
He  forgot  the  half  brick  in  his  bosom. 

After  the  hearse  came  a  line  of  hacks  extending 

[268] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STREETS 


imrtfirirrt'r'!! 


to  the  corners  and  beyond.  The  street  was  becom- 
ing packed  with  people.  All  the  windows  of  the 
block  were  open  and  crowded  with  women  and 
children  leaning  far  over  the  sills.  A  great  noise 
of  voices  arose,  and  made  the  ordinary  clamor  and 
turmoil  of  the  street  seem  like  a  country  stillness. 
The  name  of  Ringler  filled  the  air. 

Towering  above  the  throng  of  squat  Italians 
before  Ringler's  saloon  was  the  tall  figure  of 
James  Murphy,  his  broad,  rotund  and  elegant 
shape  set  off  by  a  broadcloth  Prince  Albert  coat 
and  striped  trousers.  A  brand  new  silk  hat  was 
set  a  little  to  one  side  and  back.  His  broad,  strong 
face  was  cleanly  shaved.  He  looked  at  the  crowds 
about  him  with  a  lofty,  solemn  good  humor,  and, 
waving  his  right  arm  as  if  wielding  a  scythe  at 
their  necks,  called  loudly : 

"Git  back  there.  Line  up,  line  up,  and 
leave  a  little  way  clear  for  the  corpse  and  the 


mourners." 


Some  one  touched  his  arm.  It  was  Grandpa 
Ringler,  who  stood  by  the  doorway,  erect  and  im- 
pressive, surveying  the  packed  street  and  peopled 
windows  from  his  bulging  blue  eyes,  as  Prince 
Bismarck  might  have  done  on  a  similar  occasion. 

[269  J 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


James  Murphy  inclined  an  ear,  and  Grandpa 
mumbled  huskily : 

"That  driver  back  there  has  a  derby  hat  on." 

James  Murphy  started  as  if  shot,  and,  glancing 
along  the  line  of  hacks,  extended  his  long  arm  and 
bawled : 

"Here,  there,  you  monkey-faced  Sheeney,  what 

the have  you  got  that  hat  on  for  ?  Go  back  to 

the  bam  for  your  tile.  These  people  are  paying 
for  silk  hats." 

"There  weren't  none  left,"  yelled  the  driver. 

"Well,  get  down  here,  then,  and  buy  one  at 
Cohen's  in  there.  These  people  are  paying  for 
silk  hats." 

He  turned  to  the  crowd  with  a  smiling  counte- 
nance and  opened  the  door  of  the  first  hack,  for 
the  first  of  the  mourners  had  appeared.  As  Mrs. 
Ringler  brushed  past  the  garbage  can  standing  by 
the  door  a  cabbage  leaf  was  caught  by  her  dress. 
It  was  removed  by  the  deft  fingers  of  Mr.  Murphy 
as  he  helped  the  lady  in  with  an  air  of  mingled 
commiseration  and  gallantry.  After  her  came 
Mr.  Ringler  and  Augustus. 

For  some  time  there  had  been  no  romajice  in 
the  scene  for  Louis  Pologgi.    The  name  of  Ring- 

[  270  ] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STREETS 


^n^^ 


ler  drumming  in  his  ears,  the  thousands  of  faces 
turned  in  wondering  admiration  toward  the  home 
of  his  enemy,  had  changed  his  accessible  soul  from 
a  heavenly  vista,  where  visions  walked,  into  a  hell 
of  rage  and  envy.  His  acrobatic  face  was  screwed 
into  lines  of  eager  resentment.  When  Augustus 
appeared,  dressed  in  a  new  suit  of  black,  a  black 
derby  fixed  trimly  on  his  cropped  curls,  his  head 
erect,  his  chest  thrown  out,  his  legs  moving  with 
imposing  stiffness,  Louis  felt  for  his  brick.  A 
moment  later  he  shuddered  at  the  certain  conse- 
quences of  the  act  he  had  intended. 

The  floral  carriage  and  the  hearse  moved  slowly 
down  the  street.  One  by  one  the  carriages  rolled 
up  and  stopped.  The  doors  were  opened  and 
slammed  shut  with  quick  precision.  Some  of  the 
hacks  were  passed  on  with  but  a  single  passenger, 
for  thirty  had  been  ordered,  and  Mr.  Murphy 
feared  there  w-ere  not  mourners  enough  to  fill 
them.  At  the  last  there  were  a  few  unprovided 
for,  but  this  possibility  had  been  also  considered. 
They  would  be  picked  up  as  the  procession  came 
past  again.  The  carriages,  when  they  left  the 
saloon,  were  driven  around  the  block  and  formed 
in  line  on  Park  street.     The  final  parade,  as  it 

[271  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


i^r.ivtCir'ri'irp 


turned  the  corner  and  moved  slowly  through  Bax- 
ter street,  was  all  that  a  proud  man  could  have 
asked  for.  A  great  sigh  of  satisfaction  swept  the 
block  like  a  breath  of  wind.  For  more  than  five 
minutes  there  was  scarcely  a  sound  but  the  roll  of 
wheels  and  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet. 

Behind  the  last  carriage  came  an  army  of  chil- 
dren, with  Thomas  Patrick  O'Shea  at  the  head. 
"Come  along,"  he  called  to  Louis,  standing  by  his 
hallway.  "Come  on,  Louis ;  do  honor  to  the  dead. 
Long  life  to  the  Dutch,  and  bad  luck  be  wid  them." 

Louis  sat  down  on  the  door-sill  and  looked 
gloomily  at  Filipina  playing  on  the  sidewalk  with 
a  broken  broom  handle.  He  called  her  to  him  and 
had  her  sit  by  his  side.  She  was  always  like  putty 
in  his  hands.  For  a  long  time  he  held  her  close  to 
him,  motionless.  Then  he  led  her  upstairs  and 
put  her  to  bed.  He  said  to  his  mother :  "Filipina 
is  sick.  We  must  have  the  doctor  and  a  big 
funeral."  The  woman  laughed  at  him.  "I  must 
have  my  sister  dead,"  he  yelled,  stamping  his  foot 
passionately.  His  mother  pushed  him  into  the  hall. 

That  evening,  when  his  family  was  out,  he  car- 
ried upstairs  a  great  pile  of  sticks  and  paper  he  had 
gathered  through  the  afternoon.   An  hour  later  a 

[  272  ] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STREETS 


loud  cry  came  from  the  window  across  the  way, 
and  a  hundred  voices  Hfted  the  alarm.  And  pres- 
ently there  was  a  sound  of  clanging  gongs  and  the 
fire  engines  came  thundering  down  the  street.  A 
patrol  of  police  were  driving  back  the  crowds. 

And  then  we  saw  an  excited  boy  standing  upon 
the  wall  that  guards  the  edges  of  the  roof.  The 
shouts  of  the  firemen,  the  cries  of  the  dense  crowds 
held  outside  the  lines,  must  have  been  sweet  to 
Louis.  He  saw  Mrs.  Ringler  leaning  from  her 
window  opposite.  He  thought  of  Augustus  some- 
where among  the  rabble,  beyond  the  ropes,  strain- 
ing his  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  glory  of  the 
Pologgi  excitement,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  tri- 
umph. At  first  I  had  thought  he  was  afraid  until 
I  saw  him  shoot  his  right  arm  upward,  and  heard 
him  yell  mightily :     "Me— me.     Look  at  me !" 

A  fireman  below,  thinking  he  was  about  to 
jump,  turned  the  hose  on  him  and  sent  him  tum- 
bling to  the  roof. 

The  fire  was  out  in  ten  minutes,  and  Louis  was 
very  wet.  Alas,  poor  Louis !  Your  enterprise  was 
worthy  the  Cssars,  the  Neros,  the  Napoleons  of 
the  world,  but  to  become  a  great  man  now  you 
must  learn  to  form  stock  companies. 

[273] 


^w 


CHAPTER   XVI 


THE  FORTUNE  GAINED 


HE  people  in  our  building  lived 
horribly  because  they  did  not 
know  how  to  avoid  accumu- 
lating rubbish.  They  had 
swarmed  to  this  new  building 
because  it  was  clean  and  beau- 
tiful and  tempting.  Surely,  one  orange  peel  would 
make  no  difference,  but  presently  the  halls  were 
littered  and  piles  of  ashes  were  in  the  corners; 
rags,  papers,  tin  cans  and  cast-off  shoes  were  kick- 
ing about  the  stairs.  And  then  arose  a  noise  of 
protest.  The  building  resounded  with  shrill 
voices,  shrieking  accusations.  This  thing  must 
not  be  so.  To  deface  and  litter  these  fine  halls  was 
infamous.  Their  neighbors  were  to  blame;  and 
then  there  were  rumors  of  a  Tenement  House  De- 
partment.   It  was  said  that  landlords  must  supply 

[  274  ] 


Where  the  Other  Half  Live. 

(A  street  bath.) 


THE  FORTUNE  GAINED 


1 


receptacles  for  this  waste,  and  that  janitors  must 
keep  the  halls  clean.  Strange  letters  of  appeal 
were  written  and  posted  to  this  new  agent  of  the 
law.  An  inspector  came.  He  could  speak  the 
languages,  was  a  man  of  skill  and  tact.  He  in- 
formed them  of  their  own  shortcomings,  took  the 
landlord  to  task,  secured  rubbish  and  garbage 
cans,  woke  up  the  janitor  and  assured  them  all 
that  he  would  come  again. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  seen  almost  nothing,  ex- 
cept an  occasional  criticism,  concerning  the  opera- 
tions of  the  new  department,  and  I  suggested  the 
subject  to  Le  Royd, 

I  found  Mr.  de  Forest  patiently  toiling  at  his 
desk,  and  learned  from  him  an  amazing  story. 
This  department,  the  good  Samaritan  of  the  peo- 
ple, at  the  very  beginning  of  its  career,  before  it 
could  complete  its  vast  machinery,  and  do  it  wise- 
ly, was  threatened  with  destruction.  Almost  all 
the  real  wealth  of  the  city  had  assailed  it  in  its 
wrath.  All  the  moral  forces  of  Brooklyn  had 
originally  helped  to  enact  the  law  because  it  was 
supposed  to  be  a  measure  concerning  only  the  old 
East  Side,  but  when  it  was  found  that  Brooklyn 
and   Harlem,    and   even   the   palatial   apartment 

[  277] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


house,  without  sufficient  hght  and  air,  were  all 
involved,  behold  the  moral  forces  evaporated !  The 
handful  of  gentlemen  who  still  stood  by  this  de- 
partment, without  regard  to  whom  it  affected,  or 
the  material  damage  done,  for  the  sake  of  its  neces- 
sity in  morals,  the  pitiful  human  need  of  it,  be- 
lieved defeat  to  be  almost  inevitable. 

For  me,  this  was  an  opportunity  such  as  I  had 
longed  for  when  the  squalid  regions  of  the  city 
allured  and  troubled  me.  This  department  was  a 
tabernacle  where  an  unorthodox  believer  might 
find  service  with  his  God.  All  the  forces  of  the 
world  that  are  seeking  to  fashion  it  after  ideal 
forms  were  centered  here.  Men  had  dreamed  and 
failed,  and  from  their  dreams  and  failures  this 
effective  enterprise  was  born.  It  was  creating  for 
me  my  city  of  the  clouds. 

Its  purpose  was  to  secure  such  alterations  in  old 
tenements  as  would  make  them  wholesome  habi- 
tations, and  where  this  was  impossible,  to  destroy 
them,  that  others  might  be  built.  All  new  tene- 
ments must  be  fire-proof,  contain  the  necessities 
for  cleanliness,  and  every  room  must  have  suffi- 
cient light  and  air.  The  swarms  of  ignorant  ten- 
ants who  knew  no  better  than  to  nest  in  vile  holes 

[278] 


THE  FORTUNE  GAINED 


^^^fi^f 


would  be  given  pleasant  quarters  as  by  an  unseen 
hand,  and  the  multitudes  who,  in  their  poverty, 
were  crying  for  relief  from  dilapidation  and  dis- 
ease would  be  heard  and  helped. 

Every  month  the  department  was  receiving- 
more  than  two  thousand  appeals,  most  of  them 
unintelligible  jumbles,  written  on  scraps  of  paper 
picked  from  the  street  or  torn  from  flour  sacks  and 
manila  bags.  While  landlords  and  real  estate  own- 
ers, contractors  and  builders  and  lumber  dealers 
were  seeking  to  destroy  the  department,  these 
ludicrous  and  pathetic  appeals  came  pouring  in : 

"Pleas  at  this  House  thire  is  not  a  bit  of  lith  in 
the  Halls  at  Night  and  the  tenants  are  afred  to 
speak  for  if  th  does  the  will  be  Put  out  see  to  it  at 
one  no  gass  top  floar  nor  second  floare  the  Will  giv 
No  lith  to  us  and  all  Wood  Fire  Booard  if  the 
hous  is  on  fire  afor  you  nor  whar  Wee  are  and 
smoaking  chinbles  God  help  the  Pooar  the  hav  to 
Put  up  with  a  lot  and  has  no  lith  to  see  Whar  Wee 
are  goane." 

"Pleas  and  call  at  51 1  &  513  W.  44  st.  whare 
the  small  poakes  wear  lat  Spring  the  houses  and 

[279] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


hall  are  in  a  fearsh  condison  and  the  sinkes  the 
odor  from  them  are  verry  bad  and  if  not  seet  to  i 
fear  you  will  hav  the  same  lease  soon  again.  Pleas 
and  investigat  the  rooms  as  thire  are  7  &  8  chil- 
dern  in  too  rooms  which  i  think  is  grat  shame. 
See  fo  youself  the  housekeeper  sade  she  will  not 
let  the  Board  of  Heath  inter  in  her  house  keep- 
mg. 

"If  you  would  please  be  so  kind  and  call  to  No. 
4  Franklin  St.  and  examine  the  house  as  it  is  im- 
possible to  live  there  the  place  is  in  a  very  bad  con- 
dition and  when  the  people  go  down  in  the  hall 
they  faint  from  the  smell  as  I  have  got  malaria 
and  cannot  move  at  present  until  I  feel  better  the 
wash  tubs  smell  and  leak  and  the  landlady  will  not 
have  it  fixed  she  says  if  not  satisfied  move  and  will 
not  have  anything  fixed  the  rooms  are  dirty  and 
filthy  and  she  wont  have  them  painted  absolutely 
she  will  not  repair  anything  the  stairs  are  all 
broken  tins  and  when  I  go  up  with  a  child  I  tear 
all  my  clothes  and  if  I  send  the  children  down  they 
fall  down  stairs  last  week  a  girl  from  13  years  fell 
down  and  broke  her  arm  and  the  landlady  only 
tells  you  if  you  dont  like  it  move  I  dont  like  to 

[  280] 


THE  FORTUNE  GAINED 


i.fr.lifirilfirrr.B 


trouble  you  but  as  I  say  I  am  unable  to  move  at 
present  by  doing  this  and  call  to  examine  the  house 
at  4  Franklin  St.  you  will  do  a  piece  of  Charity. 

"Oblige  me  as  a  Friend 

for  my  childrens  sake  the  traps 
in  the  wash  tubs  smell  that  I  must  keep  the  win- 
dows open  the  waste  water  does  not  run  off. 

"Please  call  to  see  that  we  do  not  lie." 

"I  notify  you  of  a  very  serious  thing  that  hap- 
pened to  me  the  last  days  in  the  house  No.  34 
Chrystie  Street. 

"Last  Saturday  I  w'ent  out  looking  for  a  new 
residence  and  I  found  it  at  No.  34  Chrystie  Street 
top  floor  left  after  a  few  days  when  I  went  up  to 
see  if  the  rooms  are  ready  to  move  in,  Oh !  what  it 
happened,  while  standing  the  ceiling  from  the 
front  room  fell  down.  I'm  lucky  I  wasn't  in  the 
room  at  that  time.  Now  I  retard  taking  such 
rooms  but  the  landlord  keeps  my  deposit  and  force 
me  to  move  there,  just  imagine  how  landlords 
keep  poor  neighbors  in  great  danger.  Hence,  as  a 
member  of  the  greatest  union  in  the  world  I  lay 
my  protest  before  the  Board  of  Health  and  show 
your  power  of  justice  and  defendantcy  for  the 

[281] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^Ww 


poor  with  my  greatest  regard  I'll  hope  that  my 
voice  will  do  some  good." 

When  I  had  read  hundreds  of  these  appeals  and 
listened  to  Mr.  de  Forest's  story,  and  had  seen  for 
myself  what  the  department  was  doing,  and  con- 
ceived dimly  the  marvelous  fruits  of  its  intentions, 
I  believed  that  it  was  only  necessary  to  reveal  the 
situation  without  fear  or  reticence  to  silencethe  op- 
position, however  formidable  it  might  appear.  I 
believed  this  as  I  believed  that  the  city  had  a  soul. 

It  was,  perhaps,  fortunate  that  my  paper  was 
the  Post.  It  is  certainly  unique  among  newspa- 
pers, although  we  might  possibly  find  its  generous 
and  impersonal  spirit  in  the  others,  should  we  take 
it  there. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  I  said  to  Mr.  Villard  one  day, 
"that  a  singularly  friendly  atmosphere  pervades 
these  offices.  As  a  reporter  here,  I  still  feel  like  a 
good  citizen  and  a  welcome  member  of  society, 
with  a  good  part  to  play.  Can  you  explain  the 
mystery?" 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "it  is  because  we  look  upon 
the  Evening  Post  as  an  institution,  and  not  simply 
as  a  newspaper  that  must  be  made  to  pay." 

[282] 


THE  FORTUNE  GAINED 


"^HiMi^ 


When  I  left  Mr.  de  Forest,  very  much  alive  to 
the  importance  of  my  discovery,  for  the  imminent 
danger  to  the  departinent  was  not  then  known,  I 
asked  the  Post  for  the  privilege  of  a  free-lance, 
and  it  was  given.  The  Tribune  had  always  been  a 
friendly  paper  to  the  measure,  and  when  I  went 
there  with  an  article,  a  busy  editor  looked  at  me 
squarely  in  the  eyes,  and  said :  "Brooklyn  de- 
clares the  department  is  an  outrage  as  it  stands; 
the  whole  borough's  agreed — the  best  business 
men,  the  lawyers,  preachers — everybody.  Most 
of  the  newspapers,  too,  and  the  Eagle  is  silent, 
but  I  know  personally  that  it  is  for  amendment. 
Now,  you  can't  expect  us  to  dictate  to  these  peo- 
ple. They  ought  to  know.  If  you  are  right,  you 
must  prove  it  to  Brooklyn." 

I  left  the  Tribune  feeling  as  a  man  feels  who 
starts  on  a  long  journey  through  a  fearsome  wil- 
derness alone,  and  in  the  dark.  And  this  feeling, 
perhaps,  increased  when  I  found  myself  in  the 
formidable  presence  of  Mr.  McKelway,  the  editor 
of  the  Eagle. 

"I  am  connected  with  the  Evening  Post,"  I  said. 
"I  have  come  to  talk  with  you  in  regard  to  the 
tenement  house  law." 

[283] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


f  rt«.«rirr.<n.B 


"I  see,"  he  said,  with  a  humorous  twinkle,  "that 
the  Post  is  engaged  upon  another  mission  of  phil- 
anthropy." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "it  is  at  present  in  favor  of  the 
law." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "the  law  will  be  amended." 

I  replied  that  Mr.  de  Forest  would  probably 
favor  some  necessary  amendments,  but  that  they 
would  not  make  it  less  offensive. 

"Mr.  de  Forest  is  an  able  man,"  he  said,  "and  I 
believe  in  him.  That  is  why  the  Eagle  has  so  far 
been  silent,  but  some  radical  amendments  must 
be  made." 

"All  right,"  I  answered,  "that  is  your  position 
now.  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  know.  Brooklyn  is 
threatened  with  leprosy.  If  the  enemies  of  this 
law  succeed  you  will  receive  into  your  capacious 
lap  all  that  is  objectionable  and  unclean.  This 
measure  was  thought  to  apply  only  to  the  East 
Side.  The  East  Side  is  the  only  section  of  the 
city  that  does  not  need  it.  You  can  wipe  the 
statutes  out,  but  if  there  is  any  virtue  in  religion, 
philanthropy,  the  spirit  of  social  ethics  or  altruistic 
designs,  the  East  Side  will  be  saved.  It  has  for 
many  years  been  the  experiment  station  in  mor- 

[284] 


THE  FORTUNE  GAINED 


ality.  Aside  from  that,  Manhattan  is  small.  Its 
desires  are  artistic,  it  loves  luxurious  accommoda- 
tions, and  it  will  need  that  land.  We  have  been 
cleaning  the  East  Side  for  several  years,  and  for 
several  years  Brooklyn  has  been  taking  the  sweep- 
ings. When  Seward  Park  was  built,  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  wretched  creatures  swarmed  like  rats 
from  demolished  holes  and  came  to  Brooklyn. 
You  have  a  worse  and  wider  tenement  house  re- 
gion now  than  Manhattan  ever  had." 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  McKelway,  "that  you  exag- 
gerate." 

*'If  so,"  I  said,  "I  can  be  corrected.  I  am  here 
to  write  something  about  this  for  the  Post,  and  I 
only  want  the  truth.  I  have  tramped  through 
these  regions  many  times,  but  I  am  willing  to  go 
again,  and  if  you  will  send  some  one  from  your 
paper  with  me  I  will  agree  to  write  nothing  except 
what  we  both  see." 

"I  will  agree  to  that,"  he  said  with  vigor.  'The 
Eagle  wants  the  truth." 

The  man  he  sent  with  me  had  been  connected 
with  the  paper  for  thirty  years.  He  was  the  liv- 
ing image  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher  and  a  very 
capable  man. 

[285] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"I  send  him  with  you,"  said  the  managing-  edi- 
tor, as  we  were  leaving,  "because  I  know  you  can't 
make  him  think  he  sees  what  he  don't  see." 

After  our  first  hour  my  companion  suggested 
that  we  get  a  pohceman. 

I  need  not  describe  the  discoveries  of  those  four 
terrible  days.  A  vivid  synopsis  may  be  found  in 
the  files  of  the  Eagle — an  entire  page  of  it.  It  was 
not  an  argument,  but  a  revelation  vivid  and  fright- 
ful. When  the  good  citizens  of  Brooklyn  discov- 
ered that  the  respectable  gentlemen,  leaders  in 
business  and  the  church,  who  were  conducting 
their  army  of  protest,  drew  their  income  from 
these  swarming  incubators  of  vice  and  disease, 
they  mutinied.  Then  the  Tribune  unmasked  its 
batteries  and  joined  with  the  other  papers — except 
the  Sim. 

I  was  busy  all  that  winter  helping  to  keep  the 
papers  full.  There  was  a  great  uprising.  At  a 
mass  meeting  of  tenement  dwellers,  held  in  the 
City  Hall,  one  of  the  speakers  was  an  anarchist. 
He  was  a  magnificent  animal,  very  tall  and  im- 
pressive, with  a  melodious  and  powerful  voice.  In 
his  speech,  he  said  : 

"It  is,  perhaps,  worthy  your  notice,  Mr.  Mayor, 

[  286] 


THE  FORTUNE  GAINED 


.f  rf»iri>'r>:ri 


^j 


that  this  is  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
world  when  an  anarchist  arose  in  piibhc  to  support 
a  law.  If  all  the  laws  were  like  this  one,  and  their 
spirit  was  observed  throughout  society,  there 
would  be  no  anarchists." 

When,  finally,  in  spite  of  the  protests,  the 
threats,  the  cajolery  and  the  wrath  of  real  wealth, 
the  Legislature  was  made  afraid,  and  sullenly  ad- 
mitted it  could  accept  no  amendments,  except 
those  Mr.  de  Forest  should  suggest,  I  was  grateful 
because  in  obscurity  I  had  helped  to  accomplish 
this. 

I  have  referred  to  it  now  because  it  shows  that 
a  man  may  be  indifferent  to  his  advancement,  pur- 
sue his  fancies,  be  ambitious  only  for  delight,  and 
still  be  active  and  do  good. 

When  this  interesting  incident  was  over,  the  way 
was  open  for  me  to  win  reputation  and  a  fortune 
in  New  York.  I  declined  it,  and  two  days  later 
Nancy  and  I  were  speeding  on  a  Lake  Shore  train 
to  a  valley  in  the  Catskills  to  make  our  home. 
How  long  will  men  convert  their  cities  into 
prisons?  The  paths  leading  from  the  forest  to 
the  city  run  both  ways  for  me.  and  if  the  field  be 
tempting,  I  may  loiter  in  the  field. 

D287  ] 


wJutmOB^m 


CHAPTER   XVII 


O 


TWO  YEARS  AND  BACK 


HERE  are  three  great  things  for 
civiHzation  to  accompHsh.  It 
must  discover  the  exact  frac- 
tion of  the  earth  and  its  prod- 
ucts that  is  the  citizen's  due, 
give  it  to  him  for  the  amount 
of  labor  necessary  for  his  health,  and  teach  him 
how  to  enjoy  it  in  contentment,  desiring  no  more. 
The  place  we  had  chosen  in  the  Catskills  was  on 
a  hillside,  some  distance  from  the  road — a  corner 
of  the  forest  that  covers  the  sides  of  Round  Top 
and  High  Peak.  A  mountain  brook  came  out  of 
the  woods  at  this  point,  and  crept  down  the  open 
hillside.  Through  the  branches  of  the  balsams  we 
could  see  the  Valley  of  the  Plaaterkill. 

Days  upon  the  hillside,  long  rambles  through  the 

[  288  ] 


TWO  YEARS  AND  BACK 


woods,  hour  after  hour  of  quiet  reading,  pleasant 
labor  in  the  garden,  years  of  peace,  simplicity  and 
content — this  was  the  home  we  had  conceived. 

I  think  we  came  as  near  to  an  actual  realization 
of  this  dream  as  two  people  can.  In  "The  House 
in  the  Woods"  you  will  find  a  truthful  record  of 
our  successes  and  failures  during  the  first  year. 
After  the  book  was  written  we  gave  up  the  back- 
breaking  struggle  for  the  Simple  Life,  and  hired 
a  boy  and  a  girl  to  do  our  work  for  us.  And  after 
that  first  summer  we  had  no  garden — it  was 
cheaper  to  buy  our  vegetables  from  the  pedlers 
that  drove  through  the  valley  three  times  a  week. 

Our  chore  boy  was  of  a  joyous  temper.  We 
delighted  in  his  jokes,  the  merry  blue  Irish  eyes  of 
him,  his  rosy  cheeks,  his  curling  blond  locks,  the 
sound  of  his  voice  as  he  sang  snatches  of  such 
popular  songs  as  had  slipped  in  through  the  moun- 
tain gaps.  On  his  way  to  the  brook  for  a  mess  of 
trout  he  would  often  yodle  melodiously,  and  the 
notes  coming  fainter  and  fainter  from  the  forest 
were  very  sweet. 

But  the  cows  in  his  care  were  going  dry.  Nancy 
and  I  often  argued  the  question,  "Can  a  happy- 
hearted   boy   be  depended   on   to  milk   regularly 

[289  J 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


always  at  a  certain  time?"    "And  should  we  keep 
the  happy-hearted  boy  ?" 

We  settled  the  matter  by  selling  the  cows.  We 
kept  the  chickens,  because  they  could  be  given  what 
food  they  needed  when  convenient. 

We  found  that  it  required  at  least  sixty  dollars 
a  month  to  be  comfortable  in  the  woods,  and  thirty 
of  the  sixty  was  spent  for  labor. 

Our  buildings  were  beautiful.  They  cost  us 
thirty-five  hundred  dollars,  but  their  value  was  far 
greater.  I  doubt  if  just  such  an  effect  could  be 
produced  again.  The  house  was  built  by  no  de- 
sign— it  grew  day  by  day,  giving  a  substance  to 
our  desires.  It  was  fashioned  by  the  instinct  with 
which  wild  creatures  build,  and  when  we  slipped 
inside,  and  lit  the  fire  on  the  wide  hearth,  and  drew 
the  door  to,  the  lines  of  the  walls  and  windows, 
the  height  and  extent  of  the  ceilings,  the  nooks 
and  angles,  adjusted  themselves  to  our  moods  and 
fancies — the  rooms  became  vistas  down  which  re- 
flection moved  or  snug  shelter  that  wrapped  us 
close. 
^•^  We  felt  toward  the  house  as  a  woodchuck  to 

his  hole. 

As  things  are  now  arranged  it  requires  too  hard 

[  290] 


TWO  YEARS  AND  BACK 


^n^ 


work  to  get  your  living  from  the  soil.  Life  in  the 
country  ceases  to  be  pleasant  if  you  must  support 
yourself  there  with  your  hands.  Manual  labor  in 
the  country,  as  in  the  city,  is  pleasant  only  as  a 
voluntary  exercise — as  recreation.  Men  must 
learn  how  to  supply  their  needs  without  too  great 
toil  if  they  would  be  well  and  happy. 

During  the  first  years  in  the  mountains,  with 
all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  simple  country  life 
about  us,  we  worked  like  beavers  for  a  bare  living, 
and  sat  up  late  in  order  to  steal  a  few  moments  of 
conscious  rest.  But  we  were  often  too  tired  to 
rest. 

When  we  sold  the  cows  and  pigs  and  hired  a 
boy  to  do  the  never-ending  odds  and  ends  of 
chores,  and  a  girl  to  cook  and  wash  the  dishes, 
and  keep  the  house  in  order,  we  could  still  be  busy 
enough  to  be  healthy,  and  idle  enough.  We  work- 
ed a  little,  read  a  little,  explored  the  forest,  played 
Pedro  with  our  neighbors,  followed  the  trout 
streams  with  a  hook  and  line,  and  the  long,  glow- 
ing days  of  the  second  summer  slipped  past  like 
smiling  phantoms.  There  is  a  curiously  unreal 
quality  to  these  dreams  when  they  do  come  true. 

The  fall  approached.    We  stood  for  a  moment 

[291  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


in  our  dooryard,  watching  the  leaves  turn,  and  the 
fall  was  gone.  The  first  crimson  and  yellow  leaves 
ran  like  a  flame  over  the  valley  and  up  the  moun- 
tain sides.  We  were  in  a  bowl  of  brilliant  hues. 
A  cold  wind  descended,  the  sky  and  the  earth 
were  grey,  the  trees  were  bare  and  the  snow  fell. 
We  slipped  into  our  comfortable  home  and  built 
great  fires  on  the  hearths  and  crammed  the  stoves 
with  wood.  The  timbers  cracked  with  the  frost 
at  night.  The  snow  bent  the  limbs  of  the  trees 
and  rose  to  the  window  sills.  We  scraped  the 
frost  from  the  panes  and  peered  out  upon  a  world 
of  crystal. 

But  we  were  warm  and  snug  inside.  From 
October  until  March  we  burned  eighty  cords  of 
wood. 

My  neighbors  came  with  long,  two-handled, 
cross-cut  saws  and  axes.  They  wore  sheepskin 
coats  and  felt  boots  and  heavy  caps,  with  earlaps. 
Their  beards  and  eyebrows  were  icy  and  their 
cheeks  covered  with  frost.  We  waded  into  the 
forest,  through  snow  to  our  hips,  floundering  in 
the  underbrush  beneath  the  snow,  and  chose  tfie 
trees  for  the  slaughter.  Then  the  snow  was 
tramped  and  the  trees  felled  and  hauled  with  oxen 

[292] 


TWO  YEARS  AND  BACK 


to  the  house.  Cord  upon  cord  was  cut  and  heaped 
upon  the  pile  and  the  stoves  and  fireplaces  con- 
sumed it  day  and  night. 

The  trees  were  too  crowded  in  the  forest  and 
this  careful  trimming  did  it  good. 

A  little  work  in  the  frosty  air  gave  constant 
variety  to  salt  pork  and  roast  apples  and  the  flour 
barrel.  The  sound  of  the  saws  and  the  axes  just 
back  of  the  house  became  good  company.  And  in 
the  evening  there  was  the  open  fire,  the  peace  of 
two  serene  lovers,  in  a  little  circle  of  soft  lamp- 
light, in  a  great,  warm  room,  with  shadow  cor- 
ners, and  the  wind  in  the  forest  outside. 

And  there  were  five  dogs.  Bob  and  two  of  his 
sons,  Jamie  and  Laurie,  his  daughter  Bonnie,  and 
Billy,  the  bull  terrier.  Bob  lay  always  near  my 
chair ;  Jamie  in  a  cool  corner,  for  his  coat  was  long 
and  thick  and  he  was  more  like  a  dog  than  the 
others.  Bonnie  and  Laurie  lay  by  Nancy,  and 
Billy,  the  bull,  on  the  hearthstone,  nodding  and 
blinking  at  the  fire. 

Those  long,  peaceful  winter  evenings  passed  in 
a  companionable  silence,  in  dreaming,  in  reading 
aloud,  in  munching  apples  until  the  plate  was 
cleared.    Early  in  March  there  was  a  thaw  and  a 

[293] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^^^fi^l 


day  of  rain.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  roar  of 
brooks.  Then  the  wind  changed  suddenly  and 
blew  cold  from  the  north.  There  was  still  more 
than  a  foot  of  snow.  The  thermometer  fell  to 
twelve  degrees  below  zero,  and  then  we  knew  that 
we  needed  no  more  winter.  We  were  made  sud- 
denly impatient  by  that  tantalizing  trick  of  spring. 

While  the  timbers  of  the  house  were  cracking 
with  the  frost,  we  sat  together  late  one  night,  talk- 
ing of  the  strawberry  bed  we  expected  to  start,  of 
the  little  patch  we  should  sow  to  peas.  At  mid- 
night we  woke  the  sleepy  dogs  and  let  them  out 
for  a  few  moments  before  they  came  in  for  the 
night. 

The  stars  were  legion  and  cast  a  clear  light 
through  the  skeleton  trees  upon  the  icy  crust  of 
snow.  The  forest  seems  most  alert  when  the  night 
is  still.  We  stood  in  the  open  doorway,  watching 
and  listening  until  the  persistent  frost  drove  us  in. 
We  filled  the  stoves  with  wood  for  the  night  and 
put  fresh  logs  in  the  fireplaces.  The  boys  and  the 
girl,  one  after  another,  scratched  upon  the  door 
and  were  admitted.  Jamie  and  Bonnie  went  to 
their  padded  box  in  the  woodshed,  Laurie  climbed 
the  stairs  to  Nancy's  room  and  Bob  to  mine.    Billy 

[294] 


TWO  YEARS  AND  BACK 


slept  alone  in  the  main  room.  He  always  waited 
on  the  hearthstone  until  Nancy  had  retired  and 
then  made  his  nest  among  the  cushions  on  the 
window  seat.  She  did  not  care,  provided  he  never 
let  her  see  him  there,  and  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand this  perfectly  and  humored  her.  If  I  re- 
mained, he  ignored  my  presence  or  noticed  me 
only  as  one  who  also  understood,  settling  himself 
among  the  cushions  with  a  brief  tattoo  of  the  tail 
and  a  happy  sigh. 

Our  maid  slept  over  the  kitchen,  and  the  pipe 
from  the  kitchen  stove  passing  through  her  room 
before  entering  the  chimney,  kept  it  comfortable. 
As  we  were  fixing  the  fire  for  the  night  we  heard 
a  sleepy  voice  from  above. 

"I  think,"  said  the  maid — we  heard  her  faint- 
ly— "that  this  chimney  is  on  fire." 

Nancy  looked  at  me  incredulously. 

"I  just  had  it  cleaned  last  Tuesday." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  I  called  to  Belle. 

"I  can  hear  it  crackling  inside  of  it,"  came  from 
above. 

We  took  a  light,  and,  mounting  the  back  stairs, 
asked  Belle  to  unlock  the  door. 

"You  mustn't   bring  a   light,"   she  protested. 

[  295  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^rMicirriTB 


We  laughed  at  her  and  presently  the  lock  clicked. 

"Now  wait,"  she  urged,  "till  I  get  under  the 
bedclothes."  A  moment  later  we  heard  a  muffled, 
"It's  all  right  now." 

There  was  a  crackling  sound  in  the  stove  pipe, 
but  the  chimney  itself  gave  no  sign. 

"A  little  salt  will  fix  that,"  I  said. 

While  Nancy  was  getting  the  salt  and  throwing 
it  on  the  fire  in  the  stove,  I  went  outside  and 
glanced  up  at  the  chimney.  There  were  no  sparks, 
and  my  apprehensions  were  at  rest. 

We  never  looked  at  the  house  or  the  woods  or 
over  the  valley  indifferently.  Satisfied  with  a 
glance  at  the  chimney,  I  stood  for  a  moment  drink- 
ing in  the  aspect  of  this  home  of  ours — its  pic- 
turesque and  comfortable  appearance,  its  length, 
its  fine  lines  and  the  soft  light  from  its  windows. 

Nancy  was  standing  by  the  fireplace  when  I 
entered,  talking  to  Billy,  waiting  to  bid  me  good- 
night. Our  two  candles  were  on  the  mantel.  We 
mounted  the  stairs  together  as  far  as  the  landing, 
where  our  ways  diverged.  My  room  was  at  the 
end  of  the  house  adjoining  the  library.  Nancy 
occupied  the  room  in  the  centre,  between  Belle 
and  me. 

[296] 


TWO  YEARS  AND  BACK 


^nW 


Nothing  had  ever  been  said  about  it,  but 
Nancy's  door  and  the  Hbrary  door  and  mine 
were  usually  left  open.  I  know  that  I  liked  to 
have  thein  so,  in  a  half-conscious  thought  for 
that  possible  cry  in  the  night — the  appeal  of 
anxiety  or  restlessness  or  terror  that  I  might  not 
hear. 

There  was  a  heavy  frost  on  the  windows,  al- 
though it  was  the  last  of  March.  I  opened  mine 
and  fled  from  the  cold  blast  to  the  quilts  and  thick 
blankets,  leaving  only  my  eyes  uncovered.  It  was 
long  past  twelve  and  the  wind  had  risen.  I  watch- 
ed the  moving  tree-tops  until  their  intricate  passes 
put  me  into  a  profound  sleep. 

It  was  still  night  when  I  found  myself  standing 
on  the  floor,  trying  to  waken,  reaching  out  to  feel 
the  way  I  could  not  see.  My  eyes  opened,  and  I 
was  conscious  of  a  sickening  fright.  Then  I  heard 
what  Nancy  had  really  spoken  a  moment  before. 
It  was  the  strained  voice,  the  horror,  the  despair 
of  it  that  sickened  me — not  what  she  said. 

I  knew  the  house  was  burning  up,  but  I  thought 
only  of  Nancy  and  the  note  of  agony  in  her  cry. 

I  remember  now  that  her  voice  was  not  raised — 
that  she  spoke  quickly  and  clearly.     Had  she  said 

[  297  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^||^ 


an  ordinary  thing,  I  could  not  have  heard  her  in 
my  sleep,  through  the  intervening  rooms. 

It  was  her  spirit  that  had  startled  mine  and 
wakened  me.    It  was  her  fear. 

The  moment  I  was  fully  awake  I  shook  this 
fright  from  me.  I  had  never  believed  in  disasters, 
and  never  really  suffered  from  them. 

I  saw  Nancy  standing  very  still  in  her  door- 
way, silhouetted  against  the  moonlight  flooding 
her  room. 

"The  house  is  gone,"  she  said.  "Belle's  room 
and  the  woodshed  are  ablaze." 

My  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment.  The  library 
back  of  me,  filled  with  books  to  the  ceiling;  the 
quaint  little  vestibule  where  I  stood  confronting 
Nancy ;  her  bedchamter — all  so  serene  and  famil- 
iar;  this  house  of  ours,  ancient  with  the  anticipated 
peace  and  comfort  of  all  the  years  to  come — gone? 
It  seemed  grotesque,  impossible.  And  then  in  the 
silence  I  heard  Bob  whining  in  the  room  below, 
and  a  sudden,  faint  sound  of  sharp  crackling. 

I  shall  not  forget  the  moments  that  followed. 
Down  the  stairs,  through  the  long  main  room  and 
dining-room  and  laundry,  I  hurried,  hearing  the 
increasing  sound  of  the  fire,  my  mood  changing 

[298] 


TWO  YEARS  AND  BACK 


vrttirirr  T.B 


with  the  rapidity  of  my  heart-beats,  growing  faint 
and  furious  by  turns,  losing  hope  and  defying  the 
danger  as  I  ran.  I  threw  open  the  door  between 
the  laundry  and  woodshed.  The  sudden  blaze  of 
light  blinded  me.  The  flames  were  leaping  over 
the  walls  and  ceiling.  Sparks  and  burning  shin- 
gles were  falling  like  hail.  Through  the  roar  and 
snapping  came  the  shrieks  of  Jamie  and  Bonnie 
cowering  in  a  distant  comer.  As  I  ran  to  them 
through  the  falling  fire  they  darted  toward  me  and 
leaped  into  my  arms,  yelping  hysterically  through 
chattering  teeth. 

I  turned  on  the  water  in  the  laundry,  Nancy  ran 
to  the  brook  with  pails  and  Belle  to  the  faucet  in 
the  cellar.  In  fifteen  minutes  the  fire  in  the  wood- 
shed was  subdued.  It  leaped  to  life  here  and  there, 
but  I  was  sure  to  master  it,  and  the  lurking 
sense  of  hopelessness  and  despair  gave  way  to 
triumph. 

Then  Belle  cried  aloud,  "The  roof  is  on  fire!" 
I  ran  outside  and  saw  the  flames  shooting  up 
through  the  shingles  for  a  distance  of  fifty  feet 
along  the  ridge.  The  fire  was  raging  through  the 
attic  the  length  of  the  house.  A  moment  later  and 
the  smoke  was  pouring  through  the  windows  of 

[299] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 

______     f||4  i\fif      _____ 


the  entire  second  story.  Nancy  was  already  in 
the  barn,  trying  in  vain  to  pull  the  pony  out  by  the 
bridle.  We  covered  her  head  with  a  blanket  and 
led  her  out. 

We  saved  nothing-  but  one  unfinished  manu- 
script and  the  tin  box  of  legal  papers. 

We  stood  in  our  bare  feet  and  nightclothes  on 
the  crust  of  snow  just  outside  the  little  grove  and 
watched  the  amazing  spectacle.  Dense  clouds  of 
smoke  poured  from  the  windows.  A  roof  fell  in. 
The  boiler  of  the  kitchen  stove  blew  up,  sending  a 
shower  of  hot  water  and  splinters  and  burning 
wood  high  a1x)ve  the  trees. 

Up  the  hill  came  Tom  and  Fred  Seifferth. 

From  far  up  the  mountain  sides,  through  the 
still  night,  came  the  faint  call  of  voices.  They 
were  neighbors  hurrying  to  us  through  the  forest. 

Nancy  and  I,  with  one  accord,  turned  our  backs 
and  started  down  the  road.  We  had  not  gone  far 
before  the  dazed  stupor  in  which  I  was  blindly 
hurrying  passed  like  a  fog  before  a  fresh  breeze. 
I  straightened  up  suddenly  and  looked  at  Nancy, 
hurrying  beside  me,  her  head  bent,  her  hands 
clasped  tightly  over  the  tin  box  under  her  night- 
robe. 

[300] 


TWO  YEARS  AND  BACK 


"What's  our  hurry?"  I  said.  "We  may  never 
see  a  spectacle  like  this  again." 

She  looked  up  at  me  and  the  shadow  left 
her  face,  .the  drawn,  set  look  vanished.  The 
blue  of  her  eyes  grew  dark  and  she  smiled.  We 
turned  about  and  looked  at  the  illuminated 
forest — the  gaunt  trees  standing  boldly  in  the 
foreground,  the  glare  of  light,  the  leaping 
flames,  the  clouds  of  sparks,  the  scurrying 
shadows,  and  in  the  background  the  world  of 
woods  climbing  the  steep  slopes,  silent  and 
dark. 

And  then  I  said  to  myself,  "There  shall  be  not 
one  moment  more  of  regret  or  sense  of  loss.  A 
thing  of  this  sort,  if  taken  as  a  tragedy,  would  dis- 
color and  overshadow  an  entire  life.  It  is  too  real 
and  big  a  thing  to  trifle  with.  It  cannot  be  ig- 
nored. We  must  carry  it  with  us  as  a  burden  of 
grief  or  accept  it  as  an  impetus  to  a  changed  and 
better  fortune." 

We  trudged  through  the  snow,  unconscious  of 
the  cold  and  our  bare  feet,  and  reached  the  Seif- 
ferths'  house  in  the  valley  at  half-past  three  in 
the  morning. 

These  good  neighbors  of  ours  were  pale  with 

[301  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


trt%trtrp\r^ 


distress.  It  was  impossible  for  them  to  realize 
this  sudden  disaster. 

"We  shall  not  think  of  it  as  a  disaster,"  said 
Nancy.  "It  is  only  the  sudden  ending  of  two 
happy  years — we "  her  voice  failed  her  sud- 
denly. Her  lips  trembled,  the  tears  came.  She 
looked  at  me  foolishly  and  laughed,  as  women  do 
when  confessing  to  a  weakness  they  cannot  con- 
ceal. 

"That's  the  truth  of  it,  just  the  same,"  I  said 
stoutly,  and  from  that  moment  every  passing  day 
has  proved  it.  The  two  happy  years  are  still  our 
own,  and  the  fire  but  a  brilliant  incident. 

We  think  now  that  if  we  can  we  shall  rebuild 
again,  but  in  the  meantime  these  present  places 
reveal  an  interest,  and  the  hour  bells  have  a  mellow 
chime. 


[302] 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


ND  now  it  was  fortunate  that 
the  road  between  the  country 
and  the  city  ran  both  ways  for 
us.  We  did  not  hover  over  the 
ruins  of  our  home.  At  day- 
break, while  the  smoke  was 
still  rising  above  the  trees,  we  were  in  the  Seif- 
ferths'  cutter,  speeding  along  the  valley  road  to- 
ward the  railway  station  in  Stony  Clove. 

Our  night's  rest  had  been  broken,  and  there 
had  been  some  hours  of  fear  and  fierce  toil  and 
strain.  We  were  physically  jaded.  And  every- 
thing we  wore  was  borrowed,  from  our  hats  to 
our  stockings  and  shoes.  Everything  we  owned, 
the  accumulation  of  years — books,  furniture,  keep- 
sakes, hairpins,  handkerchiefs — were  among  the 
ashes  in  the  forest.   We  slept  a  little  on  the  train, 

[  303  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


•^Tf^W 


and  talked  a  little — assuring  each  other  that  we 
did  not  mind. 

"Of  course,  I  am  tired  out,"  said  Nancy,  "but  I 
am  not  going  to  grieve." 

The  one  thing  we  were  sure  of  at  that  moment 
was  the  intrinsic  value  of  good  spirits — just  good 
spirits,  without  regard  for  the  reason  why.  The 
one  thing  we  feared  was  the  appalling  sadness  that 
hovered  over  us  like  a  malevolent  spirit.  If  there 
be  a  Power  in  the  universe  to  curse  mankind,  these 
are  the  moments  of  his  victory.  Health,  hope, 
good  fortune  and  a  serene  mind  see  nothing  of  the 
vultures  of  the  invisible  world — they  are  busy 
elsewhere  feeding  upon  fallen  spirits  and  minds 
diseased.  But  let  disaster  hit  him  suddenly,  and 
the  thing  the  optimist  has  most  to  fear  is  fear — 
the  misfortune  lies  in  the  assaults  of  grief,  the  in- 
visible hordes  of  despair,  of  rage,  of  sadness,  that 
rush  in  to  bear  him  off.  These  are  the  times  when 
a  man  has  need  of  holy  water.  Has  ill-luck  be- 
fallen me?    Then,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  sing. 

During  that  long  ride  in  the  train,  it  was  an 
uncanny  struggle  to  keep  our  hold  on  happiness 
and  our  spirits  free.  If  we  held  too  closely,  we 
would  crush  it;  if  too  tightly,  it  would  fly  away. 

[304] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


ir«<irir^r 


"For  my  own  sake,"  1  said,  "I  don't  mind  so 
much.  In  a  way  I'm  glad  it  happened.  We  were 
becoming  house-bound.  The  world  is  full  of  fine 
places  and  the  years  of  fine  days." 

Nancy  smiled,  but  her  face  was  drawn  and 
weary. 

"If  you  care  to,  we  can  rebuild  up  there.  We 
made  it  out  of  nothing  once,  and  we  can  again." 

Nancy's  lips  trembled,  and  she  turned  away. 
She  slept  for  two  hours,  and  only  awoke  when  the 
train  arrived  at  Weehawken. 

As  we  stood  on  the  ferry,  hand  in  hand,  she 
smiled  cheerily. 

"You  know  1  think  just  as  you  do  about  it — but  I 
can't  always  help  feeling  bad.  But  I  know  it  will 
be  all  right  when  I  have  had  a  good  night's  sleep." 

"And  shall  we  start  right  in  to  enjoy  the  old 
town  again?" 

"As  much  as  I  ever  did — but  you  know " 

"You  will  feel  better  when  you  get  some  clothes 
of  your  own." 

We  bought  a  Herald,  and  Nancy,  standing  on 
the  street  corner,  read  advertisements  while  I  went 
into  a  saloon  near  the  Forty-second  street  ferry  to 
telephone. 

[305  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"Hello — yes,  it's  me — I  am  here  in  New  York. 
So  am  I  glad.  Can  you  lend  me  a  hundred? — a 
hundred.  Right  off.  I  will  be  there  in  twenty 
minutes.  All  right.  I  don't  know  when  I  can 
pay  it,  and  I  may  need  more.  Our  home  burned 
up  this  morning — yes,  just  burned,  still  smoking 
up  there.  It  is  too  bad  in  a  way,  but  let's  forget  it. 
Nancy  is  outside  waiting  in  somebody's  clothes. 
I'll  be  there  in  a  minute  for  the  hundred.  Good- 
bye." 

I  would  not  let  my  friends  commiserate  with 
me.  1  started  the  talking  first.  In  all  the  weeks 
that  followed  I  made  it  a  point,  if  I  saw  any  one 
I  knew  before  they  saw  me,  to  prepare  a  jovial 
greeting  and  a  question  about  some  interest  of 
their  own.  A  man  with  an  accident  must  look  out 
or  he  will  be  kept  harping  on  a  single  theme.  The 
most  hopeful  nature  in  the  world  may  be  perverted 
by  an  endless  succession  of  sympathizing  friends 
who  grieve  in  passing.  It  is  but  an  hour  each  for 
them,  but  for  him  a  year — until  what  might  have 
been  no  more  than  a  momentary  note  of  discord  in 
a  pleasant  life  becomes  a  mournful  dirge  that  lasts 
him  to  the  grave. 

"Here  are  some  bargains  in  misses'  suits,"  said 

[306] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


^Ww 


Nancy.     "And  on  Fifth  avenue!     I  can't  believe 
these  prices,  but  we  might  see." 

Try  as  we  might,  we  could  not  step  right  out  in 
those  borrowed  shoes.  Nancy's  skirt  was  too 
long,  and  it  hung  askew,,  and  the  waist  was 
wrinkled  in  the  back.  Her  hat  was  on  crooked, 
but  it  was  not  worth  while  to  straighten  it.  I  am 
used  to  old  clothes  myself,  but  to  my  own.  It  is 
all  right  when  you  grow  used  to  them  by  degrees. 
Strange  old  clothes  confuse  you — it  is  like  being 
another  person  in  your  dreams. 

Nancy  walked  with  her  head  held  sideways  and 
the  Herald  gripped  tightly  in  her  hand.  We  reach- 
ed the  store  on  Fifth  avenue  and  sidled  in.  Nancy 
made  straight  for  a  dressing-room  and  disap- 
peared. A  moment  later  she  peered  at  me  around 
the  edge  of  the  door  and  I  knew  by  the  light  in 
her  eyes  and  the  beaming  expression  of  blank  re- 
lief that 

It  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  find  yourself  at  forty 
re-entering  life  as  God  made  you,  with  all  the 
added  wonders  of  civilization  before  you — and  to 
get.  I  left  Nancy  getting  them  and  went  to  see 
my  friend.  He  promptly  side-stepped  the  misfor- 
tune with  me,  placed  a  hundred  dollars  in  my 

[  307  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


hand,  called  up  the  store  where  Nancy  was  and 
told  them  to  charge  the  bill  to  him, 

"Are  those  really  borrowed  clothes?"  he  asked. 

"They  be." 

"How  lucky  to  have  a  neighbor  who  would  fit." 

He  slapped  me  on  the  hick  and  laughed  and  I 
laughed,  and  he  pushed  me  good-naturedly  out  the 
door.  "I  must  hustle  like  old  Harry,"  he  said,  "to 
make  up  the  hundred  I've  just  lost." 

As  I  hurried  toward  the  elevator  he  called  out, 
"You  had  better  come  back  to  lunch." 

"We  shall  lunch,"  I  answered,  "in  a  department 
store." 

The  old  place  in  Broadway,  where  I  had  once 
earned  and  left  a  hairbrush,  tempted  me.  I  went 
there  now  in  a  different  mood.  In  those  old  days 
nothing  mattered,  for  I  had  lost  nothing  that  I 
ever  really  cared  to  own.  Then  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  wander,  unattached  to  life,  unknown,  alone,  a 
little  wistful,  but  still  proving  that  one  might  be 
uncertain  of  a  crust  and  bed  and  be  serene.  But  I 
•had  proved  that  once,  and  now,  perhaps,  I  felt 
a  secret  fear  of  mourning  and  of  the  morbid  in- 
clination to  shuffle  with  a  seedy  air.  There  is  a 
difference    in    accepting    Poverty    as    a    good 

£308] 


f 


The    Colossus,    known    as    the    Flat-iron, 
at  Twenty-third  Street  and  Broadway. 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


companion,  and  in  yielding  to  it  when  it  with 
violence  would  strip  you  bare.  One  may  choose 
rags  rather  than  hang  on  to  an  electric  railway 
and  the  privilege  of  struggling  to  get  rich,  but 
when  the  things  I  love  are  taken  from  me,  and 
I  am  put,  willy-nilly,  into  rags,  I  will  not  wear 
them.  I  will  find  me  a  warm  climate  and  go 
naked  first. 

So  I  went  inside  and  bought  a  beautiful  serge 
suit,  the  best  I  ever  had,  a  cream-colored  top-coat. 
a  five-dollar  Fedora,  shirts,  collars,  ties,  under- 
clothes, stockings  and  shoes. 

And  yet  the  first  thing  Nancy  asked  me  was, 
"Did  you  think  of  handkerchiefs?" 

"No." 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't,  so  I  got  you  one." 

She  slipped  it  to  me  as  we  walked  down  Fifth 
avenue,  and  I  kept  the  thoughtful  hand. 

And  then,  as  we  came  near  to  Twenty-third 
street,  we  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  likeness  of 
the  Flatiron  building  to  the  Winged  Victory. 
We  caught  the  thing  together  and  stopped  and 
looked. 

"It  seems  to  be  flying  toward  us,"  said  Nancy. 

A  beautifully  groomed  old  gentleman  stopped 

[3"] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^nW 


beside  us,  smiled  with  fatherly  benevolence  and 
said: 

"That  is  certainly  true — quite  a  marvelous  ef- 
fect." 

He  bowed  and  renewed  his  way  leisurely,  ap- 
pearing and  passing  like  an  amiable  party  in  a 
fairy  tale. 

Nancy  was  looking  intently  at  the  walk.  "Do 
you  think  he  might  have  dropped  a  snuff  box  that 
will  turn  into  a  chest  of  gold  ?" 

"I  am  thinking  that  we  need " 

"My  dear,"  I  said,-  "we  have  enough  just  now 
to  walk  upon  the  avenue.  We  have  toiled  at  get- 
ting all  the  day.  Let's  think  we're  surfeited  with 
things  and  glad  to  get  away." 

She  left  me  talking  and  went  into  a  store  upon 
the  corner  for  the  things.  I  put  them  in  my  pocket 
meekly,  for  I  have  learned  that  while  I  might  in 
time  make  something  of  a  philosopher  of  Nancy, 
she  can  be  an  adorable  woman  with  no  help  from 
me. 

And  then  I  saw  a  most  amazing  sight.  Down 
Broadway,  rolling  majestically  through  the  crowd- 
ing vehicles,  making  the  little  cabs  to  scurry  like 
hens,  passed  a  huge  automobile.    Some  thirty  peo- 

[312] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


^Uw 

^^^^r 


pie  sat  composedly  on  top,  gaping  like  children  as 
they  listen  to  a  grandma's  tale.  In  front  and 
facing  them  stood  a  tall  man  in  uniform,  a  mega- 
phone waving  from  his  lips,  a  long,  lean  arm  ex- 
tended. "Seeing  New  York"  had  developed  in 
my  absence.  But  how  perfectly  it  seemed  to 
fit.  This  was  the  thing  the  city  needed  to  fix  its 
place. 

Come  now,  all  ye  inhabitants  of  Kalamazoo,  and 
see  the  way  we  do  it.  The  show  place  of  the  na- 
tion has  been  thrown  open.  The  generations  have 
completed  little  dramas  interesting  to  hear.  You 
may  ride  through  the  open  avenue,  with  smiling, 
gaping  multitudes  on  either  hand,  and  hear  the 
dramas  bawled  at  you  through  megaphones.  How 
this  man  made  his  money,  and  the  new  way  some 
woman  has  for  spending  it.  Here  Mr.  Clark  is 
putting  the  last  touches  to  his  booth,  and  here  is 
where  the  Vanderbilt  and  Astor  shows,  old-time 
favorites,  like  Punch  and  Judy,  have  been  held 
for  years.  It  was  a  long  time  building,  this  Luna 
Park  and  Dreamland  of  the  ages — but  it  is  real 
and  lasting.  These  spectacles  are  real,  not  made 
of  painted  cardboard,  with  hired  actors  for  the 
parts.    They  grew  from  hopes  and  fears  that  men 

[313] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


vrt«irirr^rB 


have  really  laughed  and  wept  over.  Families  have 
come  from  the  grass  and  dwelt  in  palaces,  and 
passed  away,  unconscious  workmen,  serving  to 
construct  this  great  centennial  we  offer  you. 
Seats,  two  dollars  for  the  all-day  show. 

Even  the  born  New  Yorker  might  find  an  in- 
terest in  this  trip.  On  Friday  morning  Nancy  and 
I  climbed  the  seats  in  the  third  row.  We  went  for 
amusement,  but  we  returned  to  think.  The  spirit 
of  the  enterprise  affected  us.  The  familiar  avenue 
seemed  strange.  There  was  the  old  hotel  upon 
the  corner,  and  there  the  tower  of  the  Garden  ris- 
ing above  the  trees  of  Madison  Square.  These 
things  had  grown  so  common  that  I  no  longer  saw 
them  as  I  passed,  but  now,  from  the  seat  of  the 
sightseer,  they  stood  out  with  a  new  and  strange 
distinctness.  I  turned  from  side  to  side,  looked 
up  the  avenue  and  down,  and  the  fog  of  the  habi- 
tual lifted,  revealing  the  world  again. 

The  lecturer  took  his  place  before  us.  The 
vehicle  turned  about,  and,  with  a  solid,  even 
motion  and  a  purring  sound,  rolled  swiftly  south. 
I  saw  the  green  trees  of  Washington  Square 
in  the  distance,  and  the  tall,  familiar  buildings 
gliding   past.    Then   came  the   lecturer's   voice, 

[314] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


^^^T®' 


like  a  blast,  and  I  caught  a  keen  glance  from 
his  eye  at  the  left  of  the  megaphone,  cocked  on 
me. 

"Here  we  are  at  Twentieth  street.  There  is 
Lord  &  Taylor's  on  the  left,  and  on  the  right  the 
Methodist  Book  Concern,  that  divides  its  enor- 
mous profits  between  Home  mid  Foreign  MIS- 
SIONS!" 

His  glance  became  piercing  and  uncanny  to- 
ward the  last,  and  his  voice  and  the  words  grew 
clearer  and  more  penetrating,  until  the  last  one 
nearly  lifted  me  from  my  seat.  After  the  assault 
he  retreated  and  approached,  as  from  a  distance, 
softly. 

Meanwhile  the  automobile  was  moving  at  good 
speed. 

"This  is  Sixteenth  street,  and  up  to  the  right 
the  New  York  Hospital.  In  the  next  block,  the 
last  of  the  brownstone  houses  on  your  right,  is  the 

home  of  Mrs.  "      (I  shot  an  apprehensive 

glance  at  the  windows — what  might  the  lady 
think  if,  seated  at  an  open  casement  sewing,  she 
heard  this  shouting  of  her  name)  ;  "this  is  the 
house  where  the  police  made  one  thousand 
dollars  a  week  by  watching  for  the  young  million- 

[315] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


aire, .    He  zvasn't  there,  and  they  knew  it 

ALL  THE  TIME!" 

Again  his  eye  bored  me  like  a  gimlet,  and  his 
voice  and  glance  grew  mild,  and  his  gestures  now 
this  side,  now  that,  smooth  and  easy. 

"Fourteenth  street — New  York's  longest  cross- 
town  street. 

"The  Lenox  Home. 

"General  Sickles'  house. 

"The  old  Presbyterian  Church,  organized  in 
1716. 

"Here  is  the  old  colonial  house  of  the  Ward 
family — the  first  house  built  upon  Fifth  avenue. 

"Before  you  is  the  famous  Washington  Arch, 
that  cost  one  hundred  and  seventy-seven  thousand 
dollars.  It  stands  at  the  entrance  of  Washington 
Square,  where  now  a  thousand  children  play.  It 
used  to  be  a  Potter's  Field.  The  bodies  were  not 
removed.  One  hundred  thousand  paupers  still 
LYE  SLEEPING  THERE! 

"Now  we  are  turning  into  Waverley  Place,  once 
the  most  aristocratic  portion  of  the  city,  and  some 
of  the  oldest  families  of  New  York  (pointing) 
STILL  LIVE  THERE ! 

"I'll  show  you  the  old  home  of  Samuel  Morse, 

[316] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


mmm' 


inventor  of  the  telegraph.  The  first  telegram  ever 
sent  sped  over  the  trees  of  the  old  cemetery.  There 
(pointing)  was  the  home  of  Charles  Dana,  and 
there  the  house  w^here  Bishop  Potter  lived  before 
he  married."  (Then  followed  a  cynical  comment 
bellowed  at  the  top  of  his  voice.) 

"Now  we  turn  into  Broadway,  so  called  be- 
cause it  is  so  narrow.  I  call  it  the  Canyon  of  the 
Skyscrapers.  To  your  right  is  the  Broadway  Cen- 
tral Hotel,  the  place  where  Stokes  murdered  Jim 
Fiske.  Fiske  got  off,  and  this  is  the  first  case  in 
Democratic  America  where  a  man  escaped  the  gal- 
lows by  the  free  use  of  money. 

"We  are  coming  to  Bleecker  street.  Look  out 
for  the  yellow  buildings  on  the  corner,  one  block 
to  your  left,  with  the  old  English  lettering.  This 
is  the  saloon  opened  by  Bishop  Potter,  called  the 
Subway  Saloon. 

"The  building  on  the  corner  to  your  right  is  the 
store  of  Charles  Broadway  Rouss,  the  blind  mil- 
lionaire who  kept  no  books.  He  offered  one  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  to  anybody  who  would  re- 
store his  sight.  He  came  to  the  city  with  noth- 
ing and  died  worth  eighteen  million.  I  will  show 
you  the  park  he  gave  to  the  poor. 

[317] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


"On  those  seven  blocks  down  there  to  your  left 
you  can  buy  a  railroad  ticket  to  anywhere,  on  any 
line. 

"We  are  now  coming  to  Canal  street,  once  a 
canal  for  deep-sea  schooners.  A  good  many 
schooners  go  through  this  street  now,  but  they 
only  cost  a  nickel  ! 

"Franklin  street.  Down  to  the  left  is  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs,  and  the  Criminal  Courts  building  on  the 
north.  They  took  twenty  thousand  prisoners  over 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs  last  year. 

"This  is  the  New  York  Life  building.  Does 
one  million  dollars  worth  of  business.  Employs 
five  thousand  clerks.    Cost  six  million  dollars. 

"The  building  on  your  right,  Broadway  and 
Duane,  is  the  Mutual  Reserve  building." 

Nancy  pinched  my  arm.  I  woke  as  from  a 
trance  and  glanced  up  with  her  to  a  window  on 
the  thirteenth  floor,  from  which  we  ha.d  so  often 
gazed  over  the  city  we  were  now  passing  through, 
for  this  was  the  building  where  her  office  was. 

"Little  Peter,"  murmured  Nancy  in  my  ear.  I 
took  the  hand  she  slipped  to  me,  and  murmured 
back,  "And,  after  all,  he  did  bake  bread.  We  have 
been  the  Islander  and  the  householder." 

[318] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


iilMM 


"When  happiness  was  not  happy  enough; 
when  the  moon  was  a  pleasant  fever;  when  the 
stars  were  letters  and  the  flowers  ciphers,  and  the 
air  was  coined  into  song ;  when  all  business  seemed 
an  impertinence,  and  all  the  men  and  women  run- 
ning to  and  fro  in  the  streets — "  (she  made  a 
little  gesture  toward  the  swarming  walls)  "like 
pictures." 

But  the  lecturer  caught  us  whispering,  and 
pierced  us  with  his  eye. 

"The  estate  that  owns  the  property  on  the  cor- 
ner to  your  right  was  in  litigation  over  twenty 
years.  This  building,  newly  erected,  was  boarded 
up  for  twenty  years!" 

We  passed  the  City  Hall  Park,  where  Bob  once 
chased  the  birds — were  shown  the  Municipal 
building,  on  which  Boss  Tweed  made  twenty 
million;  the  spot  where  Nathan  Hale  was  exe- 
cuted; Newspaper  Row  beyond  the  trees;  St. 
Paul's  building,  twenty-five  stories  high 

"And  here  is  Maiden  Lane,  so  called  because 
the  youths  and  maidens  once  made  love  there  on 
moonlight  nights,  and  now,  naturally,  it  is  a 
wholesale  jewelers'  street. 

"The  Equitable  building,   where  they  are  at 

[319] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


vrtfirirri'VtB 


present  playing  Hyde  and  seek.  Trinity  Court 
building,  on  your  right,  will  be  one  of  the  tallest 
in  the  world  when  finished.  It  is  owned  by  the 
Trinity  Church  Corporation,  the  richest  church 
corporation  except  Canterbury.  And  here  is  Trin- 
ity Church.  Look  at  it  well.  It  is  the  only  thing 
that  ever  got  ahead  of  Wall  Street  and  stayed 

THERE  ! 

"And  now  we  turn  down  Wall  Street.  When 
New  York  was  a  flag  station  it  was  full  of  sheep 
and  bulls  and  lambs.  This  is  where  the  people 
came  to  see  them  gambol.  The  building  on  the 
next  block  to  your  left  is  the  Sub-Treasury.  Op- 
posite is  the  bank  of  Morgan.  The  Treasury  is 
there,  but  here,  in  Morgan's  corner,  is  where  the 
MONEY  IS! 

"We  come  now  to  the  Stock  Exchange,  where 
they  make  thirty  cents  look  like  thirty  million 
dollars,  and  get  real  money  for  it,  too!" 

He  took  the  megaphone  from  his  lips  with  a 
flourish,  jumped  to  the  sidewalk,  put  up  the  lad- 
der and  we  all  climbed  down. 

Broad  street  was  alive  with  people  running  to 
and  fro,  in  and  out  of  buildings,  up  and  down  the 
pavements,  forming  masses  that  moved  from  walk 

[320] 


TP^E  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


to  walk,  and  gathered  and  dispersed  about  the 
agitated  circle  of  speculators  on  the  curb. 

We  followed  the  lecturer  inside  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, and  were  taken  up  in  elevators,  escorted 
briskly  through  an  ornate  hall,  and  came  out  upon 
the  gallery  that  surrounds  the  mighty  chamber 
where  Belshazzar  feasts,  awaiting  the  handwrit- 
ing on  the  wall. 

The  ceiling  was  of  virgin  gold  suspended  over 
a  vast  area  without  a  pillar  to  uphold  it,  seven 
stories  high.  The  floor  beneath  was  covered  with 
a  litter  of  yellow  envelopes  and  telegrams.  There 
were  groups  of  men  packed  close  together,  shout- 
ing and  gesticulating.  There  were  men  strolling 
alone,  like  idlers  through  a  meadow  on  a  pleasant 
day,  and  others  hurr>'ing  from  group  to  group. 
Here  two  met  for  a  conference  and  were  off  again. 
Pencils  were  put  to  notebooks.  The  scene  was 
kaleidoscopic,  intense,  mysterious.  Through  the 
swarms  of  men  moved  another  swarm  of  boys  in 
gray  uniforms,  carrying  dispatches,  running,  call- 
ing, their  piping  voices  penetrating  through  the 
almost  savage  roar. 

Close  beside  us  stood  the  lecturer  talking,  famil- 
iarly, easily,  and  loud  enough  for  all  to  hear.  These 

[.-^21  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


^TV 


mighty  men,  these  captains  of  finance,  were  the 
puppets  of  his  performance,  the  incidental  paying" 
features  of  his  two-dollar  show. 

"You  see  that  man  with  the  bald  head?  That's 
Straus.  He  has  eight  memberships.  These  mem- 
berships come  fairly  high.  The  last  one  sold  for 
eighty-two  thousand  five  hundred  dollars.  Last 
week  it  was.  In  another  year  it  will  be  one  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars.  The  next  year  after  that 
no  one  can  buy  any.  There's  .  He  dis- 
pleased his  family  by  his  marriage.  He  was  en- 
gaged in  the  contest  of  the  will  for  twenty-five 
years,  and  got  thirty  million  out  of  the  estate. 
There's  the  Beau  Brummel  of  the  Exchange — the 
man  there  with  the  silk  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head.  It's  Stillman.  He  buys  a  new  hat  every 
Friday.  Do  you  see  that  little  man  over  there — 
the  natty  man  in  the  smoking-jacket,  with  his  hair 
parted  in  the  middle?  That's  George  Gould.  He 
doesn't  look  to  be  over  fifty,  but  he  is.  I  want  you 
to  see  that  man  with  the  gray  beard.  His  name  is 
Lawrence — the  farmer  of  the  Stock  Exchange. 
He  was  once  a  squatter  and  is  worth  to-day 
twenty-two  million." 

Of  course  neither  Gould  nor  Stillman  was  there. 

[322  ] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


Mr.  Stillman  does  not  own  a  seat,  and,  while  Mr. 
George  Gould  does,  he  is  never  on  the  floor.  The 
entire  lecture  of  the  giiide  was  taken  stenographi- 
cally.  He  made  some  amazing  errors,  but  on  the 
whole  I  think  the  spirit  of  the  age  spoke  through 
his  megaphone. 

And  so  he  picked  and  pointed,  and  we  gazed  and 
smiled  until  this  spectacle,  grotesque  and  singu- 
lar, was  over  and  we  went  outside. 

We  drove  over  all  the  ancient  portions  of  the 
city,  past  the  landmarks  of  its  growth,  and  sud- 
denly, from  the  days  of  De  Peyster,  Stuyvesant, 
Franklin  and  Cooper,  we  emerged,  as  from  a.  tun- 
nel, to  the  bright  daylight  of  Twenty-third  street. 

We  hurried  through  our  lunch,  climbed  to  our 
seats  again,  and  rolled  briskly  up  Fifth  avenue. 
The  lecturer  waved  his  arm  toward  the  residences 
we  passed  and  bawled  through  the  megaphone  the 
names  of  those  who  lived  there  and  their  histories. 
How  futile  then  became  the  iron  gateways  and 
the  heavy  oaken  doors !  These  imposing  man- 
sions, where  the  winners  in  the  game  would  sit 
remote,  like  the  walls  of  Jericho,  have  crumbled 
at  this  trumpet  blast. 

"And  here  is  Sherry's  on  your  left.    There  was 

[323  ] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


a  banquet  there  last  night.  We  didn't  attend,  but 
we  feel  better  than  those  who  did.  There  is  the 
church  that  Roosevelt  attended.  The  Belgravia 
apartments,  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  The  home  of 
Russell  Sage.  Do  you  see  that  parlor  window? 
That's  been  cracked  for  twenty  years.  The  resi- 
dence of  the  Goelets.  The  Democratic  Club.  Some 
people  think  that  those  initials  carved  upon  the 
granite  mean  Dick  Croker.  Here  is  the  Church 
of  the  Heavenly  Rest.  It  has  the  largest  win- 
dow of  miy  in  the  world!" 

Then  followed  several  houses — names  were 
shouted,  the  windows  pointed  at,  and  town  topic 
paragraphs  flung  through  the  megaphone. 

"The  home  of  Rockefeller.  The  St.  Regis  Ho- 
tel, where  they  come  to  live  the  Simple  Life! 

"Millionaires'  Row !  See,  ladies,  here  is  your 
old  friend  Woolworth,  of  the  Ten-Cent  Store,  and 
here  is  Pyle's  Pearline,  and  here  is  Carnegie,  who, 
to  meet  the  demands  of  his  benevolence,  is  re- 
duced to  forty-six  servants! — the  largest  number 
of  any  civilized  man  in  the  world.  Here  is  the 
residence  of  Castoria,  with  the  image  of  an  infant 
on  its  dormer  peak." 

We  rolled  through  Central  Park,  and  over  the 

[324] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


*Ww 


hill  to  the  Hudson,  past  Grant's  Tomb  and  the 
grave  of  the  amiable  child,  and  down  Riverside 
Drive,  with  the  automobile  at  full  speed. 

A  confusion  of  names  and  thoughts  and  con- 
ceptions were  pouring  from  the  megaphone,  and  I 
was  held  spellbound  by  the  piercing  eye.  But  to- 
ward the  end  I  looked  away,  and  saw  the  last  of 
the  green  banks  of  the  river  and  the  children  play- 
ing there. 

I  heard  no  more,  and  gradually  the  Boulevard 
became  familiar,  leading  me  back  into  a  friendly 
world.  I  saw  the  beauty  of  these  houses,  the 
pleasant  faces  of  the  people  on  the  walks  and  in  the 
vehicles  we  passed.  Since  my  own  childhood  it 
was  a  better  world  in  which  to  work  and  live. 

Toil  on,  votaries  of  ambition  and  of  greed ;  pro- 
mote, erect,  adorn,  for  in  the  end  your  palaces 
shall  become  the  inheritance  of  a  friendly  and  a 
happy  race.  Youth  will  still  remain  nature's  sav- 
ing anarchy.  Laws  and  customs  will  be  tested  by 
its  dreams.  Children  born  in  luxury  still  seek  a 
fairyland  and  listen  to  the  stories  of  Utopia.  How- 
ever fair  the  nest,  it  will  not  hold  them — they  need 
a  happy  world.  The  things  men  strive  for  may  be 
vain,  but  not  all  vain.     In  the  finished  master- 

[325] 


LODGINGS  IN  TOWN 


piece  the  clown  and  charlatan  has  each  his  part  to 
play.  There  are  great  men  everywhere.  What 
matters  it  who  wears  the  crown?  If  we  find  our 
heroes  of  the  horse  and  palace  are  mountebanks  or 
men  of  straw,  we  need  not  be  disturbed,  for  the 
streets  are  full,  and  if  we  look  serenely  we  may 
find  real  heroes  there. 

On  Saturday  we  found  apartments  and  on  Mon- 
day I  looked  about  me  for  a  job. 

Two  months  have  passed.  I  have  paid  my 
debts  except  some  small  ones,  where  the  folks  I 
owe  would  rather  wait  until  the  house  is  built 
again. 

By  the  time  this  book  is  published  the  ashes  in 
the  forest  will  be  cleared  away  and  Brice  will  have 
the  new  foundation  and  the  chimney  built. 

I  have  learned  some  lessons,  among  them  these : 
The  city  is  man's  workshop,  the  country  is  his 
home. 

A  city,  a  forest,  a  green  field,  each  alike,  will 
become  to  a  man  according  to  the  spirit  with  which 
he  enters  them.  The  thing  he  seeks  he  must  be- 
stow. In  town  or  country  a  man  must  deal  with 
men,  and  he  will  have  his  work  to  do,  but  even  on 
the  pavements  he  may  see  the  wood  sprites  if  he 

[326] 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 


thinks  of  them,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  forest  he 
can  do  no  more. 

The  philosophy  in  this  little  trilogy  is  very  old. 
I  have  sought  only  to  picture  an  effort  to  live  by  it, 
and  in  this  there  may  be  something  new. 


THE  END 


^. 


io-/S 


[327] 


BY        JOSEPH       C.       LINCOLN 

PARTNERS  OF  THE  TIDE.  A  Novel.  With  frontispiece  in 
colors  by  Ch.  Weber-Ditzler,  and  decorations  by  John  Rae. 
i2mo.      Cloth.      ^1.50. 

••  Honesty  bein'  the  best  policy,  you  and  me's  out  of  a  job." 

Cap'n  Ezra  Tit  comb. 

'<  Dry  Yankee  wit,  shrewdness,  and  common  sense  are 
scattered  through  the  pages." — The  Dial. 

••  Delightful  Cape  Codders  painted  with  Dutch  accuracy  and 
plenty  of  humor." — N.  T.  Sun. 

"There  is  a  hearty  wholesome  quality  about  this  story  of  the 
life  of  the  Cape  Cod  folk.  The  salt  breath  of  the  sea  blows 
through  it,  and  you  can  feel  the  throb  and  pulse  of  the  tide." 

— Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  Particularly  delightful  and  delightfully  particular  are  the  'old 
maids,'  who,  as  the  stage-driver  says,  *come  to  realize  that  they 
needed  a  man  'round  the  house,  but  as  there  warn't  no  bids  in 
that  line,  compromised,'  and  adopted  a  boy." 

— Boston  Transcript. 

CJP'N  ERl.  A  Story  of  the  Coast.  Illustrated  in  colors  by 
Ch.  Weber-Ditzler.  1 2mo.  Cloth.  I1.50.  Sixth  Ameri- 
can edition.     Published  also  in  England,  Canada  and  Australia. 

"Everybody's  friend." — New  York  Sun. 

"All  the  freshness  of  realism  wedded  to  humor." 

— New  York  Mail. 
"A    splendid    story.       Laughter,    incident    and    pathos    are 
blended.      Expectations  are  more  than  realized.      Will  give  the 
author  a  firm  place  in  the  world  of  contemporary  fiction." 

— Newark  Advertiser. 

A.     S.     BARNES     &     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK 


BY      ALFRED      HENRY      LEWIS 

THE    SUNSET    TRAIL.       izmo.      Cloth.      Illustrated.     ^1.50 

"The  stirring  deeds  of  Mr.  Masterson." — N.   T.    Sun. 

•*A  story  of  the  land  where  pistols  are  used  to  settle 
arguments." — Newark  Advertiser. 

"  Fine  reading  for  any  man  with  red  blood  in  his  veins  and 
the  capacity  for  a  hearty  laugh." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

•*  Mr.  Lewis's  keen  wit  and  almost  hypertrophied  sense  of  the 
ridiculous,  makes  the  volume  intensely  interesting." — The  Dial. 

THE  PRESIDENT.  A  Novel,  izmo.  Cloth.  Illustrated  in 
colors  by  Jay  Hambidge.     ;^i.5o. 

**Mr.  Lewis  has  succeeded.  'The  President*  should  not 
lack  plenty  of  readers." — New  Tork  Mail. 

♦•Politics  and  Wall  Street  struggle  to  be  uppermost  in  this 
absorbing  tale.  It  is  hard  to  see  what  reason  one  could  have 
for  not  reading  it." — Washington  Post. 

THE  BOSS.  How  He  Came  to  Rule  New  Tork.  xzmo.  Cloth. 
Illustrated  by  Glackens.  $1.50.  Fourth  edition  in  America. 
Third  edition  in  Australia. 

*'A  Novel  that  must  live." — Chicago  Chronicle. 
**A  genuine  literary  sensation." 

— Philadelphia  North  American, 
"A  book  that  every  man  who  has  an  interest  in  his  country— 
and  in  himself,  for  that  matter — must  read." 

—  Chicago  Evening  Post. 
"The  most  complete  and  remarkable  exposition  that  has  yet 
been  produced." — New  Tork  Times. 


A.     S,     BARNES     &     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK 


BY       HENRY       C.       ROWLAND 

THE  MOUNT  JIN  OF  FEARS.     i2mo.     Cloth.    With  frontis- 
piece.    $1.50. 

This  picture  of  the  strange  adventures  of  Dr.  Ley  den  repre- 
sents story-telling  of  singular  power  and  intensity.  A  book  of 
strange  scenes  and  thrilling  adventures  picturing  unknown  corner? 
of  the  world  and  characters  forceful,  original  and  surprising.  Dr. 
Leyden,  collector,  world  traveller,  scientist,  adventurer,  keenest 
of  observers  of  men  and  things,  is  a  unique  character  ;  and  his 
adventures  thrill  the  imagination  of  readers  by  their  strangeness, 
their  seeming  mixture  of  fantasy  and  truth  and  the  frankness  with 
which  they  reveal  the  elemental  things  of  human  nature. 

THE  WANDERERS.    J  Novel.     i2mo.     Cloth.     With  frontis- 
piece in  colors,  by  Charlotte  Weber.      J  1.50. 

Ocean  steamships,  'longshore  duels,  audacious  villians,  petty 
swindlers  and  charming  fair  ladies  compose  the  drama  of  the 
man  who  ran  away  with  his  own  yacht. 

"A  little  breathless  toward  the  end,  the  reader  enjoys  every 
moment  spent  with  Brian  Kinard,  the  roving  son  of  an  Irish 
carl."  —  Chicago  Record- Her  aid. 

**  Full  of  complications  and  surprises  which  hold  the  reader's 
attention  to  the  end.  An  unusually  good  story  of  actual  life  at 
set." — Boston  Transcript. 

70  WINDWARD.     A  Novel,      izmo.     Cloth.     Frontispiece  in 
colors,  by  Charlotte  Weber.     ^1.50.     Third  edition. 

«*A  delightful  novel." — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

'♦Written  with  charm." — New  York  Evening  Post. 

*'Crisp  and  strong,  full  of  breeziness  and  virile  humanity." 

— Brooklyn  Eagle. 
**A  capital  story  told  with  a  spirit  and  go  that  are  irresistible. 
A  strong  and  dramatic  novel.      Shows  literary  genius." 

— Newark  Advertiser. 

A.    S.    BARNES     i     COMPANY,    NEW    YORK 


NOVELS     WORTH     READING 


HIS  LITTLE  WORLD.  The  Story  of  Hunch  Badeau.  By 
Samuel  Merwin.      izmo.      Cloth.      Illustrated,     gi.25. 

"  The  best  story  Samuel  Merwin  has  written." 

—  Chicago  Record-Herald. 
•*  Such  men  as  he  are  the  kings  of  the  earth." 

— Minneapolis  Tribune. 

BATOU  TRISTE.  A  Story  of  Louisiana.  By  Josephine  Hamilton 
Nicholls.  i2mo.  Cloth.  Gilt  top.  Illustrated.  $1.50. 
Third  edition. 

"Charming  and  delightful." — Charleston  News  and  Observer. 

"The  simplicity  and  genuine  human  nature   which   pervade 
every  page  will  charm  the  most  blaze  reader," 

— Boston  Transcript. 

LIFE'S  COMMON  WAY.  By  Annie  Eliot  Trumbull,  izmo. 
Cloth.      ;Ji.50.      Third  edition. 

"An  uncommonly  well-written  book." — Ihe  Churchman. 

"Full  of  delicate  humor  and  compelling  interest." 

- — The  Literary  World. 
"Enlarges   the   knowledge   of   women's    motives   and    senti- 
ment." —  The  Critic. 


THE    LOVE    STORY    OF    ABNER    STONE.      By    Edwin 
Carlile  Litsey.      8vo.      Deckle  Edge.      JI1.50.      Third  edition. 

"As  sweet  and  tender  a  story  as  has  come  our  way  for  a  long 
time." — Charleston  News  and  Courier. 

"The  charm  of  the  tale  is  its  fresh  feeling  for  nature,  its 
atmospheric  quality,  and  that  touch  of  idealism  which  gives  life 
unfailing  romance." — Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 


A.     S.     BARNES     &     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK 


NOVELS      WORTH       READING 


THE    WHITE    TERROR    JND    THE    RED.      A   Novel  of 
Revolutionary  Russia.      By  A.   Cahan.     i2mo.    Cloth.    ^1.50. 
Third  edition. 

**  Mr.  Cahan  throws  the  searchlight  of  realism  far  into  inner 
Russia,  giving  one  of  the  most  illuminating  views  in  recent 
fiction." — Boston  Herald. 

"Conditions  in  Russia  are  depicted  with  startling  convincing- 
ness."— St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

'*  The  tragedy  of  the  Russian  nation  laid  bare  by  a  novelist 
who  knows.'' — New  Tork  Mail, 


A  CAPTAIN  IN  THE  RANKS.  A  Romance  of  Affairs.  By 
George  Gary  Eggleston.  i  zmo.  Cloth.  Frontispiece  in 
colors  by  C.  D.  Williams.      $1.20  net. 

**The  best  novel  Mr.  Eggleston  has  yet  written." 

— Newark  Advertiser. 
"A  vivid  and  impressive  picture  of  a  bygone  period." 

— Philadelphia  North  American. 


THE  PAGAN'S  PROGRESS.      By   Gouverneur  Morris.      With 
original  colored  frontispiece,    izmo.   Cloth.    Illustrated,    ^i.oo. 

«*  This  Miltonesque  romance  of  the  pagan  born  to  darkness, 
his  life  and  loves,  adventures,  warfare,  jealousies  and  revenge, 
as  moulded  by  the  author,  is  pungent  with  the  aroma  of 
primitive  man.  The  type  and  the  illustrations  are  in  keeping 
with  the  novelty  of  this  dramatic  narrative." — Boston  Herald. 

"  Original,  uniquely  graphic.  The  author  has  an  imagina- 
tion weird  and  full  ot  color.  Color  and  picturesqueness  mark 
him  among  writers.  He  paints  with  a  pen,  and  does  so  beau- 
tifully and  distinctly." — St.  Louis  Republic. 

A.  S.  BARNES  &  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK 


NOVELS       WORTH        READING 


MINERVA'S  MANOEUVRES.  The  Cheerful  Tale  of  a  "Return 
to  Nature."  By  Charles  Battell  Loomis.  Illustrated  by  F.  R. 
Grugcr.      izmo.      Cloth.    $i.i^q. 

Mr.  Loomis's  name  has  become  a  synonym  for  good  cheer. 
In  the  prevailing  fashion  of  "  nature  study"  and  a  "return  to 
nature,"  Mr.  Loomis's  quaint  and  gentle  humor  has  found  a 
delightfully  fitting  theme.  The  adventures  at  the  summer  home 
to  which  Minerva  is  led  from  the  city  to  dwell  with  nature,  and 
the  series  of  unexpected  and  mirthful  incidents  form  a  story  which 
readers  have  described  as  the  legitimate  successor  to  *•  Rudder 
Grange."  It  is  a  story  free  from  stress  or  strain.  There  are 
no  problems  except  the  problem  of  Minerva  and  the  simple  life, 
and  these  are  solved  with  unexpected  turns  and  a  richness  of 
humorous  situations. 

ON  TTBEE  KNOLL.  A  Story  of  the  Georgia  Coast.  By 
James  B.  Connolly.  Illustrated  in  colors  by  Ch.  Wcber-Ditzler. 
izmo.      Cloth.      ^1.25.     Second  edition. 

"There  is  adventure   aplenty,    and   much   frustrating   of  the 
schemes  of  revengeful  men."  —  N.   T.  Tribune. 

**  Clean  and  natural.    Leaves  a  good  taste  in  the  mouth." 

—  Chicago  Evening  Post. 
«'A  breezy  story  told  with  engaging  frankness." 

— Newark  Advertiser. 

SERENA.  A  Novel.  By  Virginia  Frazer  Boyle.  Frontispiece  in 
colors  by  Elizabeth  Gowdy  Baker.  izmo.  Cloth.  I1.50. 
Second  edition. 

'•The  high  standard  of  her  short   stories   is   well    maintained. 
Strong  and  unusual." — N.   T.  Glebe. 

«*Thi?  romance  runs  the  entire  gamut  ofthe  human  emotions." 

— N.   T.  American. 

•'Easily  one  of  the  very  best  among   the   good   stories   of  the 
Old  South."— iV.  r.  World. 


A.     S.    BARNES    &    COMPANY,      NEW      YORK 


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